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THE VALLEY OF ENNA 






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"The Valley of Enna 
& Other Poems ofigzz 


The Growing Dawn 

and 

Spirit of the Lower North Side 

'Plays of igzz 


EDWARD CHICHESTER WENTWORTH / 

n 


Today again Isay the things 

That Idng have lain with folded wings; 

Some mistral, wayward, desert blast 

Had tom themfrom my heartstrings’ grasp 

As if their touch of love were past. 


Chicago - cOVICI-M?GEE CO. -1923 






















CONTENTS 


PAGE 

"Eroica”.1 

The Withered Garden.1 

A Winter Narcissus.3 

A Resurrection.4 

Alice.5 

La Flute Enchantee.6 

The Grave at Kelmscott.7 

After the Years.8 

The Still, Small Voice.9 

A Convention of Alley Kats.10 

Humoresque.11 

The Valley of Enna.12 

Lilac Flames.17 

The Marble Nymph.18 

Contentment.19 

A Poet’s Thoughts.20 

Castled Rocks.21 

Galena Hills.22 

White Birches.23 

Sun Flowers.24 

Washington Square.25 









































































































































































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“EROICA” 

(Symphony No. 3) 

Beethoven 

A great life has entered the tomb. 

The low sob of violins 

Carries an elegy of remembrance 

As they breathe its tender melancholy. 

The double bass re-echoes 
These falling tears of despair 
At its hopeless loss 
Without a resurrection. 

The trumpets’ cry of desolation 
Is the wailing desert 
Of wild barbaric winds 
That have blasphemed their oasis. 

Out of all comes silence 
And the growing tide of hope 
In a unison of sweeter harmony, 

Saddened by recollection. 

The comfort of despair 
Rises in a louder cry 
Of praise: 

Farewell, beloved Chief, for Eternity’s rest! 

Theodore Thomas 
Memorial 


THE WITHERED GARDEN 

A Tone Poem 

All the shadows there are 
Have fallen,— 

All the twilights draped 
In darkness. 


[1] 


Greenness has changed 
To grayness— 

Withered grayness 
In the dry leaves 
And the black stalks, 

Trembling in the wind. 

The sigh of the branches 
Is woeful memory 
Of a life fulfilled. 

Of a life run its course 
And passed into the tomb, 

With dying prayers 
On its lips, 

That it may come again 
Unto its garden of joy 
In the resurrection of spring. 

A lonesome bird 

Flits from the naked branch, 

Strangely caressed 

By the chilling breath 

Of winter rimes 

That make forlorn its plaintive song. 

The passion of life 

Lies deep buried in a winter’s sleep. 

Withered romance 

Has fallen 

To the frozen bosom of earth, 
Hopeless in despair. 

In its soul there burns 
The flickering spark 
Of dying memories, 

Where lost youth 

Vaunts itself 

In a boasted strength, 

Now strangled and helpless. 

Undying life, 

With its flickering spark, 

Lit from the fire of heaven 


[2] 


That ne’er grows cold, 

Sleeps and dreams 
Of the sun, 

Whose calling, coming closer, 

And speaking louder, 

Rouses the sleeping spark 
With the breath of a gentle wind 
That blows it 
Into glow again. 

The withered garden 
Stirs in its sleep, memories 
Of the sweetness of past loves, 

Un forgotten; 

Lingering in the souls of its dead, 

They listen, 

For the gaining march of spring. 

O soul of resurrection, 

Wave the wand of a newer life 
O’er my withered garden, 

That it may awaken to youth once more. 

The Chicago Orchestra. 


A WINTER NARCISSUS 

It seemed as if the sensuous breath 
Of a thousand Edens 
Was borne on the quiet air 
When my white narcissus bloomed 
Its fragrance in a last farewell. 

The poignant grief of despairing life 

Shed itself in the burning tears of a drooping face, 

As if to say: 

Your memory of one will be the stronger 
As I recede— 

You know the sweetness of my soul. 

I pour out to you, as a legacy, 

All the gathered nectar of my life 

\ 


[ 3 ] 


From the first day, 

When you gave me drink 

And turned my greenness to the sun, 

I have felt your companionship,— 

Yet was dumb to speak my gratitude. 

I sensed the joy of the bursting buds 
That came in later days,— 

For I knew then my soul would speak to you 
In thankfulness 

For all your care and solicitude. 

In these few days that remain to me, 

Before I wither away 
And lose my joy of expression, 

I give you gladly 
From my deepest wells, 

The emblems of my existence: 

Fragrance, and beauty— 

These two that are my part 
In the blossoming of the Universe. 

For you they will be added 
Beauty and fragrance to your soul— 

These I bequeath to you 

That nothing may be lost of the joy of life. 


A RESURRECTION 

Thoughts that have long been sleeping 
Arouse themselves at the growing light. 

Softly come forth the clustering blossoms 
Of Spring. 

The winter thoughts of the trees 
Have burst at their impatient waiting; 

Swelling ecstasies 

That come to a fruition of whiteness. 

How the ghosts of another life 
Break into realities, 

As the warmth of the kissing sun 

Aligns them anew to the pleading harmonies— 


[ 4 ] 


The great soul of things 

That bids an expression of beauty. 

Restless ghosts they are, 

Playing the scheme of an invisible life 
Until the desire of expression 
Arouses them to action. 

The white clusters tell the story 
Of great divinity, 

Seeking to show the fragrance of beauty 
As the caressing force of creation. 

What a boundless warehouse 
Of unseen sweetness there is 
That seeks the open stage of day 
On which to play its fitting part. 

O, strange and beauteous manifests 
Of some desire eternal, 

That all life shall cry for joy 
In the springtides of its impulse. 

You bring the growing light and warmth 

Of a fulsome heart 

That the green youth of a world 

May spring forth 

As token of undying thoughts 

That sleep themselves in freshness 

To come again 

In the newer glory of a resurrection. 


ALICE 

Sweet Alice! No other name 
Seems so fit as I look on your face again. 
How oft, as the years of my life 
Have sped, one by one, 

Has your joyous youth 
Filled and o’erflowed my ageing heart. 
Your never changing smile of freshness 
Still looks down on me, 

As it has in the two generations of years 


r s i 


Which have passed 

Since first I met you in your gilded frame 

And I learned to feel the rhythm of your swaying step. 

How few unchanging things there are; 

All vital life is movement 

Toward a better end—or worse, maybe— 

Yet still thou art the same, 

The same sweet Alice 
Whom I knew so long ago 

When youth to me, too, was the rhythm of swaying step;— 
Yet mine has gone, 

And with my eyes and senses dulled, 

I stand in envied musing of those days 
When each of us could say of life: 

“Thou jewel of unchanging things that never dies.” 

Yes, so it is to me 

That in the glass I see myself 

As changing thing of a changing world— 

Yet in your face another world 

Reflects itself, in which beauty once bestowed 

Remains fore’er. Youth challenges 

The march of Time, nor feels the hand of Fate 

In deadly workmanship. 

’Tis this I envy you, sweet youth; 

The coming years will bring the passing throngs 
To look upon your silent face 

Where beauty, once adorned, has never passed away. 

A lice , 

William M. Chase 
The Art Institute 

LA FLUTE ENCHANTEE 
(Ravel) 

The forest lies still in the moonlight. 

An enchantment of silver white robes 
Brings its spell of expectant silence, 

And awaits the overture of night. 


[6] 


Now the haunting maiden spirit sips 
The dew of the green forest’s still breath.— 
Hungry eyes and eagerness for life 
As moon in a silver silence dips. 

A pool in the quiet forest deeps 
Grows white lotus flowers—iris fair 
And grasses bending tall, stand sedate 
While spirit of the coy maiden sleeps. 

The place of the maiden’s golden dreams, 

By pool of the white lotus flowers, 

Is where enchantments lure their fair nymphs 
When the fragile moonlight intervenes. 

This haunting maid is the wind of night, 

With silver notes of a spirit flute, 

Rustling to life sleeping forest leaves— 

Waking the dawn of tomorrow’s light. 


THE GRAVE AT KELMSCOTT 

When I see strong and beautiful grass 
Growing on the grave of one 
Who has lived a strong and beautiful life 
I feel the brotherhood of strength and beauty. 
Burne-Jones and William Morris 
Were equal parts of a pattern of art 
Which flames with an incandescence 
Reaching far out into the years;— 

Years of growing poverty to a world 
That had gone on with their unfinished work 
In its idle hands, 

And for which there was no fit executor or assign. 

The light of a great personality flickered out 
On that October day of eighteen hundred ninety-six. 
Morris had been like some great viking of old 
Set down in the midst of these later years 
To breathe a spirit of Art and Human Brotherhood. 


[ 7 ] 


Books and manuscripts, 

Looms and vats, 

Tenderness for the decaying structures 

Of early England which bespoke the disintegration of Time, 
Roused his interest 
In a fascination of iron 

Which made of him their crying voice in a wilderness. 

The call to Odin came in the autumn day. 

Michaelmas daisies, 

Thinning willows of dull, tarnished gold, 

Rooks silent in the elms, 

Apples strewing the orchard grass. 

In the garden the yew dragon untrimmed,— 

A few pink roses and sweet peas 

Lingered with the dahlias and crysanthemums 

As the door of the tomb opened 

For him to enter and there await the advent of the winter’s 
snows. 

These winter snows are eternal— 

But the touch of this dead on life 

Has forged, too, its wreath of beautiful immortality. 

In Memoriam 
William Morris 


AFTER THE YEARS 

I wandered thro’ an old house today 
Where every room had something to say. 
Gone were the years and the people too, 

But thro’ the shadows soft visions flew, 

And I felt caressing hands I knew. 

Half a century has passed me by 
Since I left this house with tearful eye; 

The world was a romance to me then 
But the house its starting place had been— 
And now I’m back in the nest again. 


[ 8 ] 


Time has worked on with a quiet zest 
Testing all things—the bad and the best; 

All things that we love must meet this fate 
And the old house, ’tis sad to relate, 

Hovering Time yearns to desecrate. 

It shivers and shakes in North Wind’s breath— 
Echoing rooms are footsteps of death; 

Faded walls with their flowers of grime 
Telling years of a half century’s time— 

All stand before me in misery’s rhyme. 

And so I drop here a tear—a sigh 
As memory rebuilds the days gone by. 

Time’s mist entrances—its vistas elate 
The old home again I fain would create— 

Could heaven’s wide sky more azure translate? 

THE STILL, SMALL VOICE 

There’s a wide flowing river that leads to the sea— 
It pleads in siren song to me; 

I cannot always trace its way, 

Nor will it hesitate and for a moment stay, 

To tell me why it is hurrying day by day. 

Does it lead to horizons broad— 

To some sweet world of strangeness by my feet untrod? 

Oft I stand in the silence of its grassy shores, 

When moonlight’s flood resistless pours, 

To wonder why it never rests; 

What relentless master commands unceasing quests 
In the far off world of an ocean’s boundlessness. 

Still the placid face only smiles 

To pass, with a regretful look that reconciles. 

But this river and I are bound by friendship’s ties— 
It moves along with smiles and sighs; 

Speaks of a world beyond—unknown— 

To which, all unwittingly, it has strangely flown. 
Will I let it lead me there where the mysteries shown 
Tell a secret the river knows,— 

An ocean’s Nirvana, to which each pilgrim goes? 


[ 9 ] 


A CONVENTION OF ALLEY KATS 
(Fast , with Restless Energy) 

Mr. Tom 

Was chasing his lady friend 

About the backyard of the hotel 

When the sun suddenly collapsed 

And fell behind the overheated mountains. 

A multitude of pale moons 

Arose and began to babble their little troubles 

To a great Universe 

Which tried to preserve its serenity 

In the calmness of the night. 

Tears trickled adown the faces of these little moons 

As the wails of the alley kats 

Arose in the pink atmosphere of the barnyard. 

(With Quiet Languor) 

The first violins purred, 

As if to appease the restless Tom, 

But the glittering saffron of a thousand female eyes 
Only spurred him on. 

His mind swelled and swelled, until the orbits of his eyes 
Sank into the palpitating flesh around them 
And he fell into a morass 
Of deep languor. 

It must have been the midnight orgies 
Of an overfed stomach 
For the rising clash of the cubist harmonies 
Made a nightmare 

That paled to insignificance the song of the kats. 

(With Triumphal Sweep) 

Fairly Fast 

Mr. Tom 

Finally awoke from his purple dream, 

The gray dawn of a better life 

Was slyly creeping, with the female kats, 

Down the alley like a slinking shadow. 

Each note was sobbing 


[ 10 ] 


The triumph of the dawn— 

With a sudden crash the sun awakened 
And dried the tears of night. 

In a low sweet murmur of the violins 

The majesty of day 

Cast its blushing radiance on a world 

It had loved and lost and now loved again, 

While Mr. Tom 

Shed a parting tear as the baton fell on the field of carnage. 
Impressions of 

Leo Sowerby s Symphony No. I 
Chicago Orchestra 


HUMORESQUE 

Yes, she was quite a decided brunette— 

Black, snappy eyes— 

Hauteur— 

All that goes with money riches— 

Perhaps inherited—maybe married; 

At any rate the possessor of a fine electric coupe 
And going down the boulevard alone. 

Nature had shed a few tears 
And the pavement was moist— 

Too moist for uncorded tires 
Which some people use. 

This was her misfortune, 

For a skidding machine racing toward her 
Seemed like a cruel Juggernaut. 

But it wasn’t, 

And was satisfied to push her rather gently 
Into a stone safety post 

Lying complacently in the middle of the boulevard. 
This put her out of action for a while anyway 
And there was not much to do 
But take a street-car and go home. 


[11] 


It was a new experience to ride in a street-car, 

And when the gentlemanly conductor 
Gave her a thin strip of paper 
In exchange for her eight cents 
She knew not its purport. 

The giver b^ing a man of humor, 

Seeing her look of inquiry, 

Politely advised her 
To keep it, 

As, when she had collected twelve of them, 

Upon presentation at the office of the Company, 

She would receive in exchange 
A photograph of the motorman. 

Upon telling the glad news 
To her husband later 
It is not surprising to learn 
That the humorous conductor 
Was soon looking for 
A new job 

Where his peculiar talents would be better appreciated. 


THE VALLEY OF ENNA 

The breath of Zephyrus 
Fondly kisses the Valley of Enna. 

The Valley of Enna 
Is the valley of sweetness. 

In all Sicily shines not the sun 
More kindly, 

For Demeter, the Mother goddess, 

And her fair daughter, Persephone, 

Dwell therein. 

The days come and go 
In this Golden Age, 

And Time interweaves everywhere 
The spirit of a carefree eternity. 


[12] 


Nature’s tranquil moods 
Brood with a hovering tenderness 
In this glad valley of Sicily; 

The colors of rainbows 
Shimmer and laugh in the petals 
Of all its flowers— 

Roses, hyacinths, lilies, and the purple iris. 
Persephone and the valley nymphs 
Play amongst them, 

And their joyous chatter 
Is the sound of laughing music. 

One splendid flower stands by itself, 
Majestic, alone, supremely beautiful 
To the young girl’s eyes 
Nothing can withstand its fascination. 

In the ecstasy of the moment 
Persephone grasps its stem, 

That the fragrance of a bountiful life 
Might be hers, 

And there come to pass 
In consequence, 

Events that change the Golden Age 
To a world where both joy and sorrow 
Commingle with the passing seasons. 

At her side, 

In the transformation of a moment, 

The earth beneath the flower 
Has opened. 

From its cavern depths 
Appears a chariot of gold, 

Drawn by horses hued to the blackest coal. 

And in the chariot’s seat 

Sits a king—a smileless king— 

Long lost in darkness’ depths. 

Pluto is his name. 

In his loneliness he calls 
Upon the greater gods, 

And their sympathy for him 

Lends the beauty and smile of Persephone. 


[ 13 ] 


As his bride it is 

That he takes her now 

Beside him in his chariot 

Down into the realm called Hades— 

The abode of the dead, 

For there his kingdom is 
And there he must remain. 

Very great and terrible 

Was the sorrow of Demeter, the Mother, 

At this strange loss 
Of her heart’s delight. 

No recompense could be hers— 

The world of sweet joyousness 
Became a tearful sea 
Wherein her sorrows merged themselves 
To conspire for vengeance! 

For was she not the goddess of the fruitful Earth— 
And thus resolved was she 
That if her child did not return, 

No longer would the Valley smile 
With corn and wine. 

Her messengers sent she far abroad: 

The great white crane 

That brings the rain from pastures of the mist; 

At night the torches 

Lit on Aetna’s heights 

Lent the distant skies a glare; 

But alas, no returning tale 
Of joy to her. 

At length the thought of one 
Who sat upon a glowing seat 
To cross the skies each day, 

Brought consolation’s balm. 

Helios, the sun god 
It was, who told her this: 

That Pluto, lonesome king of Hades, 

With Zeus’ consent, 

Had taken the playing nymph away 
To the shades’ abode 


[ 14 ] 


Which lies beneath the earth— 

Nor could she evermore return. 

And now at this 

The Mother god was sorely wrought, 

Nor comforted could be. 

What cause could greater gods have found 
To do this cruel thing? 

Resolved was she to punish them 
And from all the earth 
Take life of growing things 
Until repentance sought their heal again. 

So it was, without her care, 

The trees no blossoms bore, 

The fields were gray and bare; 

No colors flowered, 

While Nature stood with leaden eyes 
In vacant stare. 

Zeus, on great Olympus, 

Paused, and in his compassion 
For the Earth Mother, 

Seeing that her sorrows must be healed, 

Called Iris 

To set her rainbowed bridge across the sky 
And quickly go to comfort Demeter. 

Only the return of the Spring maiden 
Could do this, 

And Pluto was commanded to bring her back to Earth. 
Do this he must; 

For none dared disobey the voice of Zeus. 

But craftily he tempted her 
To eat a certain fruit, 

The seeds of which would keep her love 
Fore’er alive— 

Then took her in his chariot 
Back to Earth again 
That life could lift its head 
To joyousness. 

The strings of Hermes’ lyre 
In prologue’s song of sweetness, 

[ 15 ] 


Told Demeter to dry her tears— 

For now had Zeus returned 
The missing joy 

That life and gladness might again 
Fill all the fields and vales. 

Certain fruits in Pluto’s realm 
Demeter had learned, 

Gave lasting potions of the heart’s desire 
Whereby unbound again 
Could never be the hold of love. 

Persephone knew this binding force, 

And to her Mother 

Told the story of the pomegranate seeds 
Whereby her contract now must be 
To stay on Earth from early Spring 
’Til harvest-time; 

Then again return 

To Hades ’til desire of Earth for Spring 
Should importune. 

“Grieve not, dear Mother, 

Kindness received I from Pluto’s hand; 

His nobility inspires my love 

And now at his hands 

My freedom on Earth 

For eight months of each year shall be, 

But for four months 

Must I remain with him beneath the world. 

Let us then be comforted, 

Our mourning turn to joy, 

And together, once again, 

Return to the fields of Enna 

That the Earth may renew its gladness.” 

Thus the Golden Age passed 
Into seasons of joy and sadness. 

Demeter and Persephone 
Returned to the Island of Sicily 
With the wand of renewing life 
For its valleys and fields. 

Soon the yellow corn swayed in the breeze, 

The olive and the grape put forth their sprouts, 


[ 16 ] 


And the brown grass became green. 

The trees and the flowers awakened 
To the melody of the birds and the bees. 

Once again 

The Valley of Enna became the valley of sweetness 
Fondly kissed by the breath of Zephyrus. 

Thus, under the new dispensation, 

Persephone brought the sunshine warmth 
Of Spring and Summer, and Autumn 
To her goddess Mother; 

But when Winter came 
Hermes drove the golden chariot 
With the coal-black horses 
To claim the Spring maiden 
For Pluto’s time of reward. 

Thus the world now sleeps 
For a season of cold and frost, 

Until the Spring maiden’s return 

To gladden the Earth with seedtime and harvest. 

LILAC FLAMES 

White and purple flames of love 
Burn fiercely on the lilacs— 

The heart burst of Spring 
That speaks God’s voice 
To Youth. 

The world of laughing flame— 

A blazing torch 

To light Spring’s bridal feast 

Of blossomed petals— 

Fragile white faces— 

Long buried Winter sweetness 
Drawn to a gateway 
Of Sun’s desire. 

Is this the heart 

Of Divinity 

Opening itself 

To a resurrection of hope? 


[ 17 ] 


The warmth of a great love 
Is in this laughing flame 
Where the wind wooer 
Plays his lisping flute. 

Faint wood voices call 
With the green spirit breath 
Of untired trees, 

Whose newborn leaves 
Make another sky 
To the forest— 

A blue canopy hidden 
By the clasp of branches 
Borne to each other’s arms 
Where tender leaves kiss. 

’Tis now, this symphony of Nature 
In which there sounds the triumph of Spring, 
Leads the procession of virgins 
To a Sun 

Whose white hot flame burns them to fruition. 


THE MARBLE NYMPH 

Yes, I kissed those cold lips of marble,— 

She was a wood nymph, 

Sitting carelessly—yet thoughtfully 
By a leafy stream, 

With the shell of a mollusk in her hand 
And her eyes dreaming of something far away—• 
I know not of what. 

Her lips were of cold marble 

Because she was the child of a sculptor— 

Some dream of his that had become visible— 
Some dream that would never pass away; 

A mood as persistent as the tides, 

And it bid me stay 

That I, too, might dream a lasting dream. 


[IB] 


Her pensive gaze 

Seemed to tell of a long-lost time 

Of rapture— 

Something once born into her life 

Only to find its little day of joy too soon outlived— 

Then a passing on to dull monotony. 

I could fancy her the child 
Of a Pygmalion, 

Born ne’er to feel the breath of life 
But sweetly cold in everlasting death; 

One to tell her story silently, 

In the whispering wind, 

As the stone face looked back at her 
From the leafy stream. 

I said in life such beauty grows to decay, 

The joys of a changing world 
Pass with each futile hour 
And are gone forever; 

So I clasped my stone beauty in my arms 
And pressed her cold lips with mine, 

While her eyes looked away, 

As in the sweet sleep of a dead love 

That fades not nor changes 

As time weaves the ever-passing years. 

Nymph with a Shell , 

Art Institute 


CONTENTMENT 

How trite the stories of the centuries run— 
There are the pioneers who find 
No prepared places— 

Are forgers of their way 

Thro’ unbroken wildernesses 

O’er run by the freedom of wildness. 

’Tis through wildness that the places 
Of accomplishment beckon. 


[ 19 ] 


One century stands before a dozen 
As the resting-place 
Of the hunter 

Who has blazed his way to the goal. 

The mine of the blazing jewels 
Lies hidden in the deeps— 

Far away, through unbroken forests, 

Across distant seas. 

Privation, poverty, the allure of unknown shores— 
Separation from the familiar— 

Songs of strange birds—the tropic maze. 

To possess—the passion to possess 
What men at home call wealth— 

A sacredness that law builds walls about, 

As birds build strong nests of straw 
In which to hide their blue shell jewels. 

I sit at a little window 

Rocking myself to calmness as the twilight grows; 

One by one the stars of night 

Take their places before me in the sky. 

I say to myself: 

These are the jewels which have come out 
Of those far away places 
Where the men have gone 
In the peril of the jungle fever. 

I wonder why they struggle so—these men; 

Why pioneers must feel the pangs 
Of hope, and fear, and despair 
While I can sit and rock in the twilight 
And the jewels of the sky 

Full blaze their costless pleasures deep into my heart 
With an everlasting, unending smile. 


A POET’S THOUGHTS 

One star, of all that filled the skies, 
Bent low, as if to tell me things— 
Words and songs that twilight brings 
Of the vastness where silence lies. 


[ 20 ] 


Sometimes I think the great white way 
Is one of deep sky’s boulevards— 

A trysting place of heavenly bards, 

And where the star-beams romp and play. 

My bending star, whispering low, 

Pointed beyond the great white way; 

“ ’Tis further on,” it seemed to say, 
“Where the thoughts of poets go.” 

CASTLED ROCKS 

And I stood on the high bridge 
Across the Father of Waters, 

Facing the great stone fortress 
In front of Dubuque. 

The mist of the years filled my eyes, 

As I saw written there, 

The story of the pioneers— 

The breakers of a new way of freedom— 
Taking freedom from those they faced, 

Yet wielding the mighty force 
Of a tide that could be turned 
No more than the waters of the flowing river. 

And I looked down from the bridge 
To the flooding stream 
That passed on, and on,— 

Taking the homage of the States 
As it swept toward the tropical sea 
Into which its varied tribute poured. 

O, mighty, silent stream; 

What majesty in your unending procession, 
Dividing the East from the West— 

The old from the new; 

Giving the freshness of vigor 

To the soil that it might bear a testimony. 

And then the visions of the ages 
Shewed themselves to me 
In the rugged features of the towering rocks. 
A mighty force had parted them 


[ 21 ] 


That the river might find itself 

And draw its brood together 

In some lavish day of sweeping triumph. 

The signal fires of a Black Hawk 

Blazed to the answering fires 

On Savanna’s heights 

As my visions came to the later days 

When the red man’s corn was turned against him 

By the power of another’s greed. 

The Mississippi River 
at 

Dubuque 

GALENA HILLS 
One day more, 

Where the mystery of silent hills 
Floods the mind with tranquility. 

No sailor, without a shore 
To circumscribe his freedom, 

Could feel a greater thrill 
Of adventure, 

Than in the stillness of these places 
Of unending horizons— 

The tribute of greenness to the visible world 

Where a Summer’s sun 

Has kissed life into undulations of serenity. 

Riding abreast of the sky, 

With a unisoned choir of the hoot owls 
Like the play of a thousand silver strings— 

Now loud—now dying away in the distance— 
Nature’s prayer of thanksgiving 
For the morning of life and light— 

The heart of a god breaking forth into ecstasy 
At his handiwork. 

Down deep by the roadside 
A vine-covered ravine of fruits and flowers 
To whom the echo of the musical stream below 
Seemed the solace of a lover’s heart. 


[ 22 ] 


O, Time, how thou hast caressed these hills 
Of rock and iron 

To a softness of green and verdure. 

Their stubborn heads uplift themselves 
That the children of sun and rain 
May find a dwelling-place— 

The blossoming tryst of love and hope. 

Here divinity dwells in its robes of silence, 
Giving the tokens of all the years 
That have spent their days 
In an adoration of some unseen mind 
That has spelled the glorious way. 

From Galena 
To Savanna. 


WHITE BIRCHES 

Where the glacier once stretched in the sun 
Is the grooved earth—a ravine begun 
On shores of the lake, and a brooklet’s run 
Following its joyous way enthralled, 

With echoes of its laughter unrecalled. 

Here the slim white birches lean, listening 
In the silence, and below, glistening, 

The dancing face 
Of water’s race. 

How sweet the tranquil course of Nature’s day 
Where in the world of life and heart at play 
Time works with the centuries’ teeming hands; 
’Tis thus the universal scheme expands, 
Unfolding in a mysterious way 
Its drapery, and the potter’s plans display. 

Art transforms the chaos of Nature’s hand— 

It strives to modify, but not command; 

Brings wholeness of a comprehensive book 
To lights and shadows in a world’s outlook. 
Nature weaves the colors—Art arranges, 


[ 23 ] 


Where the white birches lean nothing changes, 
But in mind of man, imagination, 

Sets fire to things, like frosty Autumn’s sun. 

His poesy flings laughter to the brook, 

Gives voice to bending birches’ silent look; 

The glistening eyes of dancing water’s face 
Are sporting dryads in the tumbling race 
Where deep within the leafy, tree’d ravine 
The rushing brooklet seeks a greater scene. 

How now, O, fellow things of Nature’s deed— 
What golden dreams sail forth in restless speed 
To mould their rugged shapes to artists’ need? 
Methinks the slender birches’ listening ear 
Will catch the softer cadences of cheer 
That in Nature’s rhyme and Nature’s story 
Bring to Artist’s mind his poem’s glory. 

The North Ravine 
Lake Bluff 


SUN FLOWERS 

Along the roadside’s dusty way 
The peering faces, smiling, gay, 

Gaze archly from their yellow hair 
In silence of a canny stare. 

They seem to think that I intrude 
And break their peace of solitude; 

Throw dust-clouds on their dress of green 
To spoil the velvet of its sheen. 

I doff my hat to left and right, 

As if in pleasure at the sight, 

And as I quickly pass and turn, 

Forgiving, nodding heads, discern. 


Sunflower Boulevard 
Chicago 


[ 24 ] 


POMONA 


In her August garden of apple trees 
She stirs herself—then bending on her knees 
Her apron fills, save with the waving leaves 
Of a clustering branch she holds on high 
Which paints its red and green against the sky; 
And as she raptly turns to me 
So proudly, in her face I see 
The shadows of the red and green, 

Alike some joyous mask, or screen 
Hiding the love of her eyes, and a smile 
That has played in the gleam of artless guile. 
O, raptured scene to me—where innocence 
Sweetly plays its part with a love’s intents, 

Yet holding my eyes to the Season’s charms 
Which fill o’erflowingly her circling arms. 

Pomona 

Edward Burne-Jones 

Art Institute 


“1 am the ancient apple green, 

As once I was, so am I now, 

Forever more a hope unseen 
Between the blossom and the bough” 

WASHINGTON SQUARE 

All around me 

The yellow and orange canna blossoms 
Listen to the music of the plashing fountain 
In Washington Square. 

The quiet evening sky, 

Not yet subdued from its dying sunlight, 

Looks complacently down— 

Its white clouds of filminess 
Stir lazily in a soft and gentle wind 

That, too, scarce disturbs the leaves of the summer trees. 
Old men with puffing pipes lounge about 
On the green settees of the Park, 


[ 25 ] 


Talking in the explosives of their mother tongues, 

Or languidly reading the strange alphabets 
Of their different evening papers. 

Groups of twos and threes discuss affairs of State 
With gestures of a positive assurance— 

The unbidden thought-mongers 

Of a busy world which has cast its refuse 

On the shores of an ending day. 

I sit with the words of wisdom 

Full open before me, in the Emerson book, 

And read:—“Because the soul is progressive 
It never quite repeats itself, 

But in every act attempts the production 
Of a newer and fairer whole.” 

I muse at these words, and I look about me 
At the cannas, and the plashing fountain 
With its merry music, 

Then up to the sky-depths and their floating clouds, 

And down to the gently waving trees, 

And say to myself:— 

“Yes, this will never be quite so again, 

All of it is a part of the moving soul of God 
In the act of expression— 

Each day speaking its message 

In a little different language 

That I may at last understand 

The journey of all things toward perfection.” 

And as I look again across the canna beds, 

The kissing sunshine of an earlier hour 
Has gone—the cloudlets change, 

Assuming another shape, as if to say:— 

“Do you like us better now, in the newer guise?” 

And I say:—“Herein lies the great soul’s mood of the moment, 
Thou art the fair setting thereof—the fitting frame— 

In perfection’s journey.” 

Washington Square 
Reverie 

[ 26 ] 


ON THE LAKE STREET ELEVATED 


Moving thoughts on the Elevated 
Rush into the arms of the years agone; 
Eastward, towards the Lake, 

Past Hamlin, and California 

To Campbell, where decay 

Shows its bitterness 

And the white man’s forgetting 

His burden in a negro’s inheritance. 

Everywhere the scarred and battleworn 

Faces of the houses, 

Once the domiciles 
Of the first inhabitants— 

But long ago deserted 
In the roar of the Elevated. 

Fifty years of tramping, restless TIME , 

Since the early sweetness 

Of Oakley and Ashland, with the latter’s 

Countryside 

Nestling at its border 

As if to bring 

A measure of greenness 

To the City’s westward flow. 

At Sheldon, Ann and Morgan 
How the dreary skeletons shake 
As the old train structure itself shakes 
In its weariness and despair ; 

Dismantled churches, 

Untenanted saloons— 

Both the abodes 

Of the past generation 

In its hours of piety and play 

Lift their vacant eyes 

In the agony of rooted helplessness, 

Crying at their desertion 
And neglect 

By the hopeless crowd of another Age 
That gropes about 


[ 27 ] 


In sordid way 

In the garbage of the Past. 

Halsted and Canal 

Bring the determination of another century 
Into view. 

Wrecks of the earlier years, 

Have succumbed 

To the waves of prosperity 

That bespeak commercial greatness— 

And now the faces 

Of things living and dead 

Put on a lineament of the grimness of Peace 

As the train 

Passes on the bridge 

To join the surging crowds 

Of a hurrying Mecca. 


THE IRISH MOON 

In the high sky, over the Irish sea 
Where I weep in silence, you come to me 
As I sit in grief of my country’s woes. 

Deep down are the sunken wells of sorrows 
Which bow my head; I feel the galling rod— 
The despair of dreams that have failed of God. 
When I press my face toward you, response 
Is quick—I sense your silver smile, beauteous 
To my heart transfixed at the cold gray shore, 
As if no moon could charm again the lore 
That bloomed so full on other Edenside 
And beyond the “blarney” of ocean’s tide. 

Here now I rest, the softness of your light 
Translates the deeper shadows of the night. 
Until my mind is freed, I feel the slip 
Of a slowly changing world in the dip 
Of melting hours, when the Baal fires glow 
On the mountains where the sacred oaks grow. 


[ 28 ] 


Sidhe forms glide in the wild orange flames 
In play of their summer middle night games. 

O, Ireland, song of my heart, let me be 
To thee a lover, careless, joyous, free; 

I pledge the moon, soft shining o’er the sea, 
As hostage for the fairy world, and me. 

Great night, where quiet music stirs its breast 
In the moan of the trees by wind’s lips pressed 
Curtain o’er my land, as if changeful scene, 

Can bring to morning’s light a yester’s dream. 
A dream of Ireland free to make its place 
In a world unbought by a slave’s disgrace. 
Freely to live its moods of head and heart 
Where romance disports in a friendship’s mart. 
Now the long centuries close in the light 
Of a moon that has guarded Ireland’s night, 
Even tho’ shrouded in a paleness’ gloom 
The days are prophets of its master’s doom. 


CONVALESCENCE 

Today again I say the things 
That long have lain with folded wings; 
Some mistral, wayward, desert blast 
Had torn them from my heartstrings’ grasp 
As if their touch of love were past. 

My clouded mind to misty shores 
Stretches out, and with cry implores, 

As if some spark of life divine 
Had lost itself in distant clime 
Wherein it sought its old align. 

I grope about the fading mist 

That hides the shore of shadow tryst— 

I urge my song to break its lyre 
In bounding pulse of blood’s desire, 

As if to drench with crimson fire. 


[ 29 ] 


And thus I shed some tears—a sigh 
For vagrant days that pass me by; 

My soul’s asleep—some peaceful morn 
I shall awake to think with scorn 
Of sunless days and love forlorn. 

The world breaks forth in oldtime song, 
Stars press down in clustering throng, 
Life is a-thrill once more, as when 
All things laughed in the faith of ken 
That Beauty’s throne had always been. 


A PROCESSION OF SEASONS 

The spirit of Nature is cold: 

Winter is the General of the bivouac 
That lies before us. 

In the mistful light of an early sun 
The stern face of a dead Season 
Uplifts itself 

As if to say: “I have covered the world 
With my white blanket— 

Let it rest, for there is much work to do; 
Soon must come a day 
When yonder sun will stretch himself 
And call his sleeping camp to life again.” 

The spirit of Youth is warm: 

It speaks its protest of the sleeping camp 
Wherein the soul of deadness 
Writes, in drifts of white, 

Its silent words of hopelessness. 

Some opening way must show a path 
By which the heart may glow 
Its youth to action. 

Dormant Nature revolts the soul of Youth 
Who digs the Autumn leaves, 

As if to wreath a place 
Wherein the feet of one he loves 
May go their way. 


[ 30 ] 


The spirit of the leaves is restless 
In the Winter’s wind; 

Now released before their time 
Of breaking Spring, 

They shiver with the chattering birds 
Who make a noisy play about the path. 

The heart of the woman is Spring; 

The heart of the man is a growing Summer; 

The wreath of the leaves is the end of love 

Whose destiny is the cold world of these Winter snows. 

A Pathway in the Winter Roadway 
Jules Breton 
Art Institute 


SAFFRON TWILIGHT 

A jug of saffron twilight 
Has broken softly 

Where the upturned face of the lily pond 
Awaits the summer stars. 

The lotus blooms asleep, dream languid dreams, 
Save as touched anon 

By some wayward zephyr, seeking its repose 
Within the folds of a growing night. 

The symphony of the ending day 
Sings heavy with the sorrow 
Of a losing love, 

Receding tremulously in the darkening shadows. 

Sans care, in the placid stillness 

Of the pond 

Floats the little boat, 

Whose unmanned oars bespeak a quietude, 
Wherein the art of love 
Is master of its shafts of conquest. 

Human hearts, whose beat of early youth 
Is brought to vibrant pulse 
By common touch of hands, 

Forget the growing shades 


[ 31 ] 


In thinking that their net is seeking other things 
While they themselves are caught within. 

To Saffron skies of a passing day 
In Nature hushed and stilled 
Is born a spark of evening flame. 

As the twine of rose about the fallen tree 
So newborn love of youth 
Befits a sinking sun. 

The gathering shadows of the night 
Are Nature’s rest 
In which to drape a newer stage 
Of light 

More potent then to these whose common touch 
Has opened wide to them their eyes in paradise. 

The Amateurs 
Alexander Harrison 
Art Institute 


LEGENDS OF ST. SEBALD 

The romance of religion lies buried in the centuries. 
Mistfull halos lend enchantments 
Which sanctify unrealities. 

The mind is charged with the embellishments 
Of an Age of processions and pageantries; 

Color is the expression 

Of a divinity’s tapestries of witchery 

Which mould the minds of an expectant people. 

The imposing edifice with its pointing spires; 

The deep-toned, or the wildly joyous bells of the steeple; 

The vaulted naves, and transepts 

With the falling flood of a dimness of light 

From the pictured windows; 

The hush of a cooling silence 
Broken by the fresh-voiced choir 
And the monotone of the priestly chant; 

Swinging censers, the elevation of the Host, 


[ 32 ] 


The Holy Eucharist, all work in the soil 
Of Imagination’s garden, 

To lend reality to the mirage of an unknown world. 

The mission of Ecclesiasticism 
Is the solace of life to the multitudes 
Who grope through the mazes of existence, 
Unwitting to its deeper meanings. 

Thus has ignorance been the handmaiden of romance, 
Deepseated in the Ages, 

Where the colors of the passing show 
Have caught the eyes and held in grasp 
The obedience of a wondering world. 

In the mysterious silence of a great cathedral, 

Where the bended knee 
Of a penitent 

Translates him to a diviner presence— 

There flows the rhythm of tranquil soul 
Which fills his mind with the renewing force 
Of an eternal reality. 


NURNBERG 

It was in old Niirnberg, on the river Pegnitz, 

In the days of Frederick Barbarossa,—red beard,— 
Beloved of the people, born to bring glory and greatness 
To the city of his choosing;— 

Back in the days of the early renaissance 
Which was to break the darkness 
Of the Middle Ages,— 

Unloose Europe from the sleep of centuries 
In which all stimulus to art and progress 
Had been smothered by the devotees 
Of sects and religions struggling for the mastery. 

The first glimmering stars of a newer day 
Were hanging low in the horizon, 

Separated by the impassable distances of untracked space, 
Yet granting hope, each to the other, 

In the conscious sense of their common mission. 

Italy, Germany, France, Spain, Holland, England,— 


[ 33 ] 


Alike feeling the impulse of life’s desire 
To sing and to smile, 

To walk in the fields and valleys of joyousness, 

Drink from the springs of knowledge 

And let Beauty’s hand lead them out through the mists 

Into a clear day of cerulean skies. 

Thus was born a newer art of color; 

The printing press, the Reformation, 

Scholarships broke the shells of bigotry 
Outgrown in the broader horizons 
And walked manfully in the open road 
Of a braver expression. 

God’s voice to the simple peasants 
Of Franconia was the old voice 
Of the early church. 

Sturdy in the habits of daily life and toil, 

Their faith reflected in the mirror of the passing days, 

The steadfast cling to a simple trust 

Which marked the constancy of their foregoers, 

And to these convictions gave adherence. 

To this day and time 

Came a youth of royal blood; 

Nurtured, like St. Francis of Assissi, 

In the cradle of affluence. 

His parents, a king and queen of Denmark,— 

Devout servants of Almighty God, 

Childless until now. 

But now, as an answer to their ardent prayers, 

Blest with the presence of an heir 
To the throne. 

Strange inheritances there be, 

And the fondest hopes of longspent dreams 
Oft are wrecked on rocks of desert coasts. 

Implanted in this royal, princely heart 
Were seeds of difference, 

Wherein a life of ease and power 
Would give its place 
To devotion of another sort. 

Like Jesus, Son of God and man, 

Was he to walk the Earth 


[ 34 ] 


Doing good. Power and ease he cast aside 
To seek the kingdom of the poor, 

Wherein to find his better part 

And lead the life to which a germinating seed within 
Had destined him. 

It was the gay springtime of Paris 

When Summer’s lips were holding themselves in readiness 
To greet the voyagers of life. 

At eighteen’s age, 

Our youth bade goodby to school and friends. 

His ardent nature had brought to him 
The responses of a receptive mind, 

The companionships of loyal associations 
In friends and teachers; 

He left behind 
The pleasant memories 

Of a truthful zeal with mind of keen achievement. 

Then to his home returned, 

To parents, and the fate for him 
They’d patterned out. 

Full sure were they that this son 
A royal heir in every sense would be; 

And so for him a mate of gentle blood 
Was found. In silence he acquiesced, 

Though broadly sure the call of God 
Was stronger than all earthly ties 
Of sovereignty or State. 

When the hour had come 
At end of marriage feast, 

He left the gathered throng 
With her, his wedded wife, 

As if to spend the joyous hours 
Of love’s first revelation. 

But passing out the castle’s gate 
He found himself now face to face 
With resolution’s firm command:— 

Go ye hence alone, away from here, 

To forests deep and mountains wild, 

And there commune with self, and God, 


[ 35 ] 


That thou shalt learn 

The will of Him who holds thee strong. 

The quiet voice within 

Then gave him courage 

To speak the final words 

By which the flimsy link of State 

Was cast aside,— 

Then asking for her silence, 

Fled in shadows of the night 
And lost himself fore’er 
To all the things 
Of life that princes love:— 

The rulership of men 
Through royal pomp and power. 

Alone in depths of death-still forests 
Meditative hours 
Prepared the way. 

No deprivation too severe 

To test his faithfulness 

In the mission of life’s devotion. 

Several years of wanderings 

Unknown save to the few 

Who, like him, were religious devotees, 

Preparing themselves for lives of penury, 

Sacrificing all for the Christ’s sake 

And a hope of eternal blessedness. 

The crucifix ever beholden 
To the eyes,— 

The divine guide that stayed hunger 
And the pains of wandering, 

Yet with it the growing strength 
From benedictions of a tranquil mind. 
Youth sang its songs of ecstasy 
In memories of all the saints 
Who had won their way 
To blessedness through self-immolation. 
“He that shall forsake father and mother 
For my sake—take up his cross 
To follow me, 

Him will I endow with the peace 
[ 36 ] 


That passeth all understanding. 

To him shall be granted 

The visions of the heavenly host 

That come to them 

In the passion of a great poverty 

For my sake. 

Verily, I say unto you, my son, 

I rejoice greatly at your sacrifice. 

Keep steadily onward; 

I will be your keeper, even unto the end.” 

And the voice of a lonesome bird 
High up in a tree of the forest 
In which he sat, 

Seemed to be this voice of the Redeemer 
Speaking— 

The voice of God, speaking through Nature, 

Was his divine accompanist. 

Each leaf which stirred in the breath of the wind, 

The ripple of the water in the wayside brook, 

The song of the bird in the forest,— 

All formed a choir of acolytes 

Learning with him the lessons of divinity. 

When the storm came 
And the harshness of the elements 
Stirred the forest’s depths 
To a sublime consternation, 

He saw again the conflict that had raged within himself 
Made evident. 

Life was a storm 

When taken without those strong gates or walls of peace 
That he had forsaken 
For Christ’s sake. 

Then after the storm, would come the calm 
And, unlike the forest, 

His mind could anchor forever 
In a sea of placidity— 

The gift of God to those who chose it in freedom. 

Thus he fortified himself 
In daily contemplation; 

Strong in body, courageous in mind, 

The purity of the open world 


[ 37 ] 


Entered into his willing grasp 
Until he felt the power of leadership, 

And a readiness 

Then to go forth wherever his steps were led 
By the whisperings of an inner self. 

One Springtime morn, 

After many days of toilsome wandering, 

There came to him—our youth of royal blood— 

A scene of hope. 

To fairest Italy had his footsteps turned 

And there in peace before his eyes 

Lay sleeping, yet unkissed by warmth of sun, 

A Lombard lake,— 

Most perfect jewel of all that set 
The crown of Piedmont’s gems. 

Cinderella was it called, 

For haughty pride of sister lakes— 

Lario, Lugano, and Maggiore, 

Forgot its littleness 
In their greater selves, 

Nor sought its gentle shores 
The travelers of the day 
Because its voice in stillness lay 
Held close in modest beauty’s blush. 

He paused in wonderment 
At the peaceful scene 

And soon the rising sun above the mountain’s tops 
Shed gladness on the waking day. 

Perfumed clouds of sweetness 
On wafted gusts of sudden winds, 

Kissed his lips and soothed his sunbrowned cheeks, 
As if to welcome him to rest and ease. 

The greeting of the sumptuous blossoms 
And pungent odors of the shrubs and trees 
That dwelt in great profusion. 

Rhododendrons, azaleas, magnolias and oleanders, 
Fig trees, and all the kindred 
Of the softer latitudes, 

Gave him greeting of their ardent hearts 
And conjured him to tarry there 
Encircled by their languorous spell. 


[ 38 ] 


To a scene like this what could he say? 

A conflict in his mind was born. 

Here was ease, and a listless life— 

Why should he be remiss 
To the call of class 
Which whispered in his mind 
The softer things 
Which made for indolence. 

The call of Christ spelled renunciation, 

A shriven self of impotence 

Wherein the plenitudes were hid 

In stubborn growth of vagrant wilderness. 

And then to him his eyes of mind beheld 
The mountain top of legend’s page, 

Whereon the Christ was led 
By him who sought his compromise, 

And on its Summer’s summit 

Passed to view the gorgeous kingdoms of the world 
Lying low before his eyes. 

A fortune might be his 

To turn about and join the peaceful ways 

A royal heir could conjure with. 

The beauteous lake with mountains all around 
Bespoke to him this life of tranquil hesitation. 
Alone he struggled with himself— 

A wandering, forest life had brought with it 
Forgetfulness of the finer things 
That ease and restfulness provoke. 

Before him now a royal Eden 

Stretched itself—where lake and scent of flowers 

Awoke his deadened self 

To conflict with his newborn life of sacrifice; 

But as he more intenser grew, 

In struggle of his mind, 

A distant convent bell spake out 
As if to call him back to penitence. 

Out on the lake he looked 

To see from whence the sound had come, 

And in his eyes there rested, 

Through brilliance of twilight, 

The outlines of a terraced slope 


[ 39 ] 


Upon which reposed a white-faced monastery. 

An island in the lake there was 

That seemed to be the residence of monks and saints 
Who lived alike the ways of peace and strife. 

To him there came the hope 
That faith inspires 
Of joining those whose lives 

Were mellowed in this sacred spot of holy contemplation. 
Alone thus far had he gone his way, 

His feet directed by the mind of God, 

And surely was this the goal or stopping place 
At which to pause 

And learn the further will to usefulness. 

There on his knees he fell, 

With raptured face upturned 
As if to heaven opened wide— 

The scarlet sins of thought 
Had tempted him to turn away,— 

To break his ties of everlasting peace— 

Peace like the calmness of a flowing stream 
That filled, and then re-filled. 

That thirst of soul for the diviner presence 
Which would make him master 
Of eternal kingdoms, not made by hands, 

But which now burned before him as a spiritual light 

Flooding his mind 

With a rhythm of crying joy:— 

Abba, Father, my Saviour, and my God! 

The peace of the lake, the perfume of the flowers, 

The deep quiet, unbroken except by convent bell, 

All sang the sensuous song of ecstatic life. 

Then o’er him, like a flood 

Passed the memories of the years gone by. 

Flying clouds they were 
In which the intervening sun 
Cast its sparkling light. 

Dreams arose of all the days 
Which had been his in the passing youth 
Where expectant joy flowed like a fountain 
In its restless impulses to expression. 

Life at its high tide 


[ 40 ] 


Is maddening,—unresponsive to restraints; 

The blood surges toward its speaking voice, 

While all the laughter of hidden desires 

Manifests itself in the wild echoings 

Of an inner command to go forth to conquer. 

What a fair world,—where hidden vanities 
Would unfold themselves at every place of discovery. 
Beauty was brooding over this fair world, 

Waiting for eyes that would take its willing hand 
And be led to its vistas of ravishment. 

Yes, over there, at the misty isle 
Was the tranquil joy of life 
To which he might attain. 

And in the sweetness of this world of holy purity 
He could go in the simplicity of a boundless faith. 
Men of all nations 
Were in this white-faced monastery, 

Speaking the one language of Christ’s sacrifice 

For them, and through his atonement, their salvation. 

Yes, surely here he could learn the way 

In which others, like him, had gone before 

And made a glorious entry for themselves 

Into the Kingdom of Heaven, 

When the call came at the end of their sacrifice. 
What more could beauty mean than this? 

In its greatest expression it was the very face of God 
Turning toward men. 

Suddenly, within the vision of his eye, 

From off the island shore, 

In glint of sunlight’s dancing beam, 

A boat, containing monks, 

With lifting oars 

Now began its way to find 

The mainland— 

Toward the spot on which he stood 
The point of boat 

Was compassed, and trembling with desire 
He waited patiently, and yet with prayer’s urge 
That soon he could be joined by them— 

These men of God—with whom, 

Though strangers, yet in common cause 


[ 41 ] 


He felt the claims of brotherhood. 

And quick were they, with valiant oars 
O’er tranquil face of lake 
To reach the land on which he stood 
Awaiting them. 

Of garments torn, and bruised by Time’s expose, 

He had careless grown 

Yet with his countenance of cheer and ruddy strength 
He felt the pulse of youth 

Surmounting all else that pride might hold within 
To cause a sense of shame. 

Approaching near the shore 
One of them arose and lifted up a cross 
Which hung attached about his neck 
To golden chain suspended low to waist, 

In token of the tranquil grace 
With which they welcomed him. 

To this he bowed, with lowly head 
And made the sign 
By which they felt assured:— 

Then quickly to the shore approached— 

All eager in the stranger’s quest. 

With grasping hands they welcomed him 
And sought within the boat 
A place wherewith he could bestow himself 
In comfort, and as guest of monastery’s hosts. 

Now the rowers dipped again 
In glint of sunlight’s beam 
And soon the island shore was reached 
Where, on the high embowered bank, 

A group awaited them. 

As solace to his needs 
Refreshment of eat and drink 
Was given him; 

Then the habit of a monk, 

Newly made, and clean. 

Such luxury was he a stranger to 

And thankful grew 

In words, and joy of countenance. 

Soon to the cloister must he go 
To tell his tale of wanderings 


[ 42 ] 


And seek, perchance, a refuge for the time 
To choose his future way. 

A youth called Dionysius, 

Of an age in years like his, 

Sat close to him with wonder in his eyes; 

A Greek, now cast on Venetia’s shores, 

Had wandered on until he came 

To Lombard lake of quiet calm and restfulness. 

Born to Christ he was, 

But yet the fleshly joys and fires still lived within. 
In the stranger’s face he found a hope 
Which youth alone could give; 

And within himself he vowed 
A bond of friendship 
Which dreamed of going forth 
To face a world 

In which their common welfare joined. 

Now came the quiet twilight’s gifts 
Of rest, and calm repose 
Where mind might find a flood serene 
In which to bathe the thoughts of day 
With tempered recollection. 

Gradually silky veils are drawn across the sky 
And mist arises from the over-heated earth; 
Velvet mantles drape the distant outlines 
Of the shores and mountain heights beyond. 

The silver twinkle of the heavenly stars 
Foretells the glory of a night 
Which holds the promise of its youthful moon 
To light the face of Lombard’s tranquil lake. 

In languid air the distant trees 
Sleep motionless—Nature’s eyes are closed 
While man awaits the moonly torch 
With which to find the way 
His eyes are searching for. 

To Dionysius came the thought 

Of friendship’s intercourse 

When night would lend the chance 

By which to weld the stranger’s heart to his, 

And so he said:— 

“My boat awaits—let us search the lake;— 


[ 43 ] 


The nocturne of the dipping oars 
Sounds sweetly in the quiet hush.” 

So spent the hours until the belfry spoke 
Of growing night, and sleep, 

When monastery felt the flood of watching moon 
And coming of the crimson dawn. 

The solace of this scene of peace 
Made restful dreams, 

But in these dreams was born 
A world of wonderment, 

For in them God now marked his destined way. 

In quiet of the slipping hours 
An angel of the Almighty came to him, 

Resplendent in the glory of the brightness of God, 

And spoke to him with words which burned themselves 
Into his soul: 

The Lord God of the fathers 
Commands me to say unto thee 
That from this time forward 
Thou’rt to be zealous in his work; 

Much sorrow as a faithful servant 
Of the Almighty shall be thine. 

The power of miracles is bestowed upon thee, 

And all men shall call thee by a new name:— 

Sebald shall it be now, and forever. 

Go forth into the world preaching my gospel, 

And ministering unto the poor 

That my Kingdom on Earth may be established. 

Food and raiment shall my servant, 

Dionysius, provide for thee 
From this time forth. 

As thou art my servant 
So shall he be to thee, 

For I have a great mission prepared 
Which thou must fulfill. 

Until the end has the way been foreseen 
And thou hast found, through these years 
Of self-sacrifice and devotion, 

The true way of eternal life 

Reserved for those who are willing to become 

Poor for my sake; 


[ 44 ] 


Giving up the things in life 

Which most men prize 

But which to me are like babbling tongues, 

Full of the vain-glory 
Which leads but to destruction 
And a forgotten grave. 

Arise now, in the light of the newer day; 

Gird thyself for the charge 
I have bestowed upon thee 
And go forth. 

Thy steps, and those of thy servant, Dionysius, 

Shall be guarded from on high. 

Tarry where thine inner self tells thee to tarry 
And go on the promptings of thy soul; 

For thou shalt wax strong 
In the work of my church. 

And now, behold the brightness of the heavenly night 
Awakened Sebald from his sleep, 

And through the opened window of the monastery 
The flooding light of the moon 
Washed his face by its silver purity. 

Unto the new day was born a new determination 
And girding himself for a journey 
To the unknown world of another people, 

He made haste to command Dionysius 
To prepare his boat 

That the mainland might again be made 
The place of advent. 

Farewells said to the kindly hearts of monks 
Whose guest he had been, 

And together they left the place of delight 
Ne’er again to see its sensuous shores. 

Wandering on through the unknown pathways 
They made their way, 

Trusting to the guiding hand of Divinity 
To bring them as with a compass true, 

Unto the chosen places of accomplishment. 

Rivers and plains must they cross 
And mountain passes, 

With snows and cold severe, 

But ever onward, 


[ 45 ] 


Like a star of the firmament finding its course. 

And now came to Sebald 

The sense of a heavenly presence 

As though guided and guarded by angels. 

To him came the recollection 
Of the prophets of old: 

How the steps of these unknown visitants 
Kept pace with theirs, 

And they felt the strength of this great presence 
By which they might have faith 
To remove the mountains of difficulties 
Which lay in their path. 

The doubts of the heathen of Lombardy 
Were his to contest, 

And soon the fame of his convincing tongue 
Spread far and wide, 

So that multitudes came to hear him speak 
The message of Divinity. 

Many of those who first felt a faith in Christ 
At this eloquent tongue 
Said to one another: 

“Indeed, the angels are with him, 

Holding up his arms 

That he may have strength to go forward 
With his wonderful work.” 

’Twas thus his faith grew to miracles 
By which he turned to God’s account 
Many who needed such an evidence of holy power. 

In Dionysius there still dwelt the lust of flesh. 

Faithful to Sebald was he, 

But in the weakness of a moment 

He drank the wine reserved for sick and poor, 

And in a sense of shame 
Concealed the truth from Sebald. 

To his surprise he found his jug re-filled, 

As if by magic power. 

And by it then he knew that from Sebald nothing could be hid. 
In Sebald dwelt no meanness,— 

Returning good for ill was his intent. 

A scoffer, bearding him, felt the opening ground 
Underneath his feet, and sinking to his neck, 


[ 46 ] 


Forgot to scoff, and pleaded to be saved. 

Sebald, reaching forth his hand, released him 
From his grave—a Christian made— 

To spread the marvelous fame. 

And now, too soon, his Lombard work was done. 
The voice within had conjured him 
To further go to distant lands 
The mission to fulfill. 

Beyond the Danube, 

Into Germany, 

Carrying the cross, and the holy symbols 
To the people of the North. 

With neither bridge nor boat 
The Danube lay before him, 

And with simple prayer the answer 

“Spread forth your cloak 

And upon it stand 

Until the southern wind 

Has wafted you across to further shore; 

For there beyond you lie Franconia’s fields 
In which to tarry long.” 

These simple peasant folk 
Were made to feel the power of God 
Through miracles which spread the fame 
Of Sebald everywhere. 

A costly glass containing wine was handed him 
And when returned 

Fell to the ground, broken in a thousand bits. 
Sebald touched them, 

And to the peasant’s glad surprise 
He found his precious glass 
Restored, and whole again. 

Then passing on to another day 

He solved the trifling problems of its hours. 

Lost oxen strayed in forest’s depths,— 

Sebald’s pointing finger 
Shone with directing sparks 
The restoration way; 

A churlish peasant 

At whose hut he paused one winter’s day 
Refused to make for him a fire. 


[ 47 ] 


At Sebald’s quest he went outside— 

Icicles hanging from the cottage roof 
To fetch— 

These flame at Sebald’s magic touch, 

And host and guest alike 
Were filled with genial warmth. 

Thus the years passed by, 

Until his name and fame 
Broadcast, spread themselves 
Throughout the land. 

To Nurnberg the inner vision 
Directed him, 

There to make his final stand; 

A centre from which could circle forth 

The churchly hosts at Christ’s command. 

Hard work and fasting brought him 

More than once 

To face life’s eternal way 

Through which the recompense should come, 

But in the strength of Christ 

He labored on, 

Nor all the conflicts of the tiring strife 
Could master him 
Until his day. 

No greater zeal* than his 
Could man have shown 
Until life’s eventide was come. 

Thus lived and died 
This saint of God, 

And as he passed beyond, 

To those about he said: 

“God’s will be done; 

My resting place 
Shall be as He directs. 

Place my bier on wheels 
With unbroken oxen yoked; 

Where they go let my body rest.” 

Thus to St. Peter’s chapel 

Their guided feet 

Took him to his burial place. 


[ 48 ] 


Now after many years 
A great church uprises. 

In majesty it is the glory of the time. 
Centuries pass slowly o’er its head 
Unnoticed, 

Save as the men of the newer generation 
Add to the glory of its name. 

St. Sebald’s church it is called, 

And in its crypt 

Lie guarded the bones of its patron 
'Whose marvelous life and work 
For the glory of God 
Gave honor—both in name and deed. 

The weaver of Time 

Has set the warp and woof 

Of its thousand years 

On the garment of a growing world. 

The wanderer of any clime 

May feel the cooling breath of the centuries 

In its quiet aisles 

As he walks slowly to the golden altar. 

The incense of the ages 
Floats in undying remembrance. 

Of all the historic years 
Which have come and gone. 

But the glory of a great name 
Lingers in the dust of the thousand footsteps 
Which have worn the stone of its floors 
To venerable softness. 

God speaks today as he did 
To St. Sebald of old, 

Yet in another language; 

Times have changed 

And God has changed with them. 

He grows through His own acts 
Like a man on the voyage of life. 

No more the eternal and unchangeable 
But now as man has grown 
So God has grown with him. 

As man was first made in the image of God 


[ 49 ] 


And grows, so God must grow 
To keep faith with the image. 

As the centuries roll themselves away 
The glory of God 

Becomes more a thing of grace and beauty; 

All the world takes on the vestiture 
Of a regal youth— 

The eternal youth who ne’er grows old, nor changes, 

For the smile of a never ceasing sun 
Shines in his faith, 

And there is no night there. 

The memory of St. Sebald, too, 

Fades not, nor changes 
As the years pass on. 

The thought of a great soul of constancy 
Illumines, 

To quicken the feet of winged ideals 
To the mountain top 

Where the glory of the heavens may be drunk to a fullness. 


A NOCTURNE OF QUIETUDE 

I like to think of a story told— 

A day that has passed, 

Where silence comes 
As compassion sits on waters 
Of tranquil quietude. 

A voiceless nocturne 

Sounding melodious on the ear of mind, 

Where a requiem 

Of the beautiful peace of death 

Sinks into the memory, 

As the twilight trembles 

And slips away to the arms of Night. 

The heartblood of the lost day 
Lingers on the face of the rising moon 
As if it longed to speak 
Another word of hope— 

To tell the cheerless sea, 


[ 50 ] 


Grown cold and friendless, 

Of the coming dawn 

Wherein a world might laugh again. 

Sombre Night would wrap its arms about— 
Then flee to dissipate its gloom, 

And leave a restful calm 
Of hope. 

O, quiet peace of Nature, 

Where the tired heart rests 
In the kiss of the silvery moon. 

Drowsy lullabies float 
On the little waves 

That hug the brooding shores. 

The softness of sleep grows 

With the rising moon 

Until the unconscious breath of life 

Feels the depths of its dreams 

In the stillness of a Universe 

That awaits in complaisance the master’s word. 

Southampton Water 
J . A. McNeill Whistler 
The Art Institute 


[ 51 ] 
















THE GROWING DAWN 


[ 53 ] 




PREFACE 


The book which Annette had just finished at the opening 
of the Play is Henry James’ delightful novelette: “M'lle de 
Bergerac Of course a type of the American bourgeois like 
Annette is disappointed because Marie did not marry M. le 
Vicomte and his money, but preferred the poor school teacher, 
Coquelin, who seems like our Richard Mansfield. 

It is seldom there is much in common these later days in 
America between love and poverty, where the girl has been 
brought up in affluence and without the drudgery of housework, 
unless the question of Art intervenes. In that case the artist 
will overlook, as a rule, the mean things of life, because they do 
not, and never have been thought a burden. Mere existence, 
and how to exist is not the most important question to an artist. 
If he starves most of the time, well and good—he feeds on more 
vital things. 

And this is the case with the one per cent of whom Roger 
seems so fond: redemption comes to them through creation. A 
thing of beauty is of more joy than transient property, or 
abundance of clothes and bread. It is the old Christ saying 
again, that “Life consisteth not in the abundance of things 
possessed.” 

I do not claim for this Play that it is a presentment of 
real dialogues—that would be impossible under existing condi¬ 
tions—it is more of a dream of what might be, and what was 
once as late as the mid-Victorian Age, before the everlasting 
problem of possession, and wealth seeking had taken hold of 
and fascinated the mind of what we call Western Civilization. 

The Growing Dawn is’typical to me of a veritable Garden 
of Eden which might come to a world which is now ninety-nine 
per cent of some, and one per cent of others. 

June 3rd, 1922. 


[ 55 ] 




“THE GROWING DAWN” 

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 

Dedicated to Lillian Hiller Udell 

Whose Eyes of Mind See The Growing Dawn. 


CHARACTERS 

Paul Baldwin —About 45, a good business man. 

Helena Baldwin (his wife )—A little younger—in 
Society. 

Roger Baldwin (the son )—About 20, rather observing 
and impressionable. 

Annette Wilshire —Younger sister of Helena, about 
25, living with the Baldwins, good looking, vivacious, learning 
the ways of the world. 

Lenox Craig —Friend of Annette, getting on in the world 
and thinking of marriage. 

Richard Mansfield —Tutor of Roger, about 25. 

Jerome Hunt —A Painter, has done good work and made 
a name. 

Fritz von Liebknecht —A musician absorbed in the 
classical, can dream at the piano endlessly. 

Place and Time, Chicago, 1922. 

After the World has been saved for Democracy. 


[571 


ACT I. 


In the evening at the home of the Baldwins, family seated 
around living room, well furnished, piano, victrola, hook cases 
containing sets of standard authors, a few pictures of indifferent 
subjects; magazines and papers of the conventional type which 
advertisers seek. Annette reading the last pages of a novel Paul 
Baldwin smoking and reading the evening paper; Roger show¬ 
ing his mother a book of sketches by Whistler; Annette finishes 
her book and closes it with a sigh of annoyance. 

Annette :—I am thoroughly disgusted with that girl, 
growing up to an opportunity and when it comes, deliberately 
and recklessly throwing it away. I certainly cannot appreciate 
such motives. Why must one love out of one’s class? Love is at 
best short-lived—and then to think of the undying years which 
follow—with only poverty and misery to laugh at you for your 
folly. No, no, never for me. 

Helena: —Well, Annette, is it a case of bad dreams? I 
thought your intense interest in the story was because of appre¬ 
ciation—you have not been alive to anything for a day or two, 
since you got hold of that book. What is it all about? 

Annette: —Well, it started out all right, and I had great 
hopes that the right persons would be mated to live together 
happily forever after—but the girl’s obstinacy—bah! for a poor 
girl with a high name to throw herself away on mere intellect 
and moral worth without a name—I can’t see it. Well, she 
paid for it in the end—three children, scarcely enough to eat 
and clothe herself with, all her life, and then an ignominious 
death for herself and her beloved. All that may suit some 
romantic girls—but not for me. When I marry I will have 
everything with my love, or else mere love may hang itself on 
the doorstep and wait. 

Mr. Baldwin ( Looking up from his paper ) : —Tut, tut, An¬ 
nette, 1 know your particular heart too well, and woman’s heart 
in general well enough to venture that when your fate comes 
it will be as a flying arrow, and the love pain it brings will 
cause you to forget all of your rules of order. You can not 
deny this little god, when he makes you his special mission, 
and he will put all your resolutions to sleep with the power of 
his illusions. The beggar will seem the prince to you, if only 
your heart has been pierced, as undoubtedly the heart of your 


[ 58 ] 


heroine of the book was. I venture to predict that the man 
you will separate apart from all the others in the wide world, 
as your adorable hero, will be opposite as the poles of the 
hemisphere from the one you are playing your fancy with just 
at the present moment. 

Helena: —Why, Paul, how can you put such a sugges¬ 
tion in Annette’s head? Your type of man is without our cir¬ 
cle. Of course we admire ability and steadfastness of purpose, 
but not the old-fashioned kind. What is life worth today with¬ 
out the means to enjoy it—to travel and see things, to live along 
with others like us—have money to spend. How, indeed, could 
the poor exist at all if the rich did not spend their wealth to 
give them occupation—and how necessary that there be the rich 
to support charities, and relieve suffering everywhere. We 
must be one thing or the other, and I choose—and I think An¬ 
nette does—to be one of the few who can be guardians of the 
great army of the helpless who live and die their simple lives 
in the generosity of those more favored by the good things of 
the world. We certainly cannot help it if we find ourselves 
born into this world—where law has safeguarded our rights 
of inheritance, and will preserve our accumulations for succeed¬ 
ing generations. There is no right as sacred, and it is justified 
by the sanction of all the centuries which have come and gone 
in its upbuilding. 

Paul :—O, I agree with you entirely, Helena. I am sure 
we all admit the superiority of possession. It indicates thrift 
and thoughtfulness. I simply intended to warn Annette that, 
somehow or other in the affairs of the heart, love does not take 
cognizance of these exterior circumstances. Unless one is on 
guard, with the arrows flying all about, there may be an un¬ 
expected complication. I know how really weak the will is in 
questions of the heart. To me it is fortunate that the present 
civilization calls for a relaxation of those rigid marriage laws 
of our forefathers that seemed to doom the unhappily married 
to lifelong misery. Not that I believe these sacred ties should 
be too easily loosed—but there must be a loophole of escape 
for the impossible. 

Roger (To whom the foregoing conversation has been a 
void) :—You know, mother, these sketches of Whistler make 
me wish to be an artist. Do you think I could ever draw like 
this? Of late it seems I have before me in my mind pictures of 


[ 59 ] 


things—pictures all the time. I dreamed only last night that I 
was in some great art gallery, and I came and stood before a 
picture to which my own name was signed—and it had the prize 
ribbon pinned to it. What a hero I felt myself to be! And 
every one was passing it with admiration. What exultation for 
me to stand there and hear them say: “That was done by 
young Baldwin, a mere boy, you know. What a prophecy of 
greatness for him in the future.” I began to feel, mother, the 
joy of any life that can create beautiful things, and I believe 
there is something in me that makes it possible to realize these 
dreams. I suppose that you and father wish me to become 
a business man, and follow in the footsteps, but somehow I 
feel uneasy, and as though I should grow to hate the things 
which go with a business career. The more I see and read of 
what most men are interested in, the more I think of the past 
and the things really worth while which it has produced. I 
have the feeling sometimes that some of my ancestors, back in 
England, were artists—or at least loved Art. I think I have 
heard you say that your grandfather was a friend of John 
Ruskin and William Morris, and was interested in the coterie 
of young men who formed a group—very much criticized at 
first—who signed themselves the P R B and whose ideals per¬ 
sisted until they won recognition and renown everywhere. I 
would like to be a young man and an artist like Holman-Hunt, 
or Millais or Rossetti, on the same wide sea of creative en¬ 
deavor, rather than stunt myself in a counting-house or place 
of merchandising. This may all seem strange and unreason¬ 
able to you, mother, but I can’t help it. There is something 
growing within me which turns my desire to this other life that 
now seems almost dead to a world immersed in the commercial¬ 
ism of growing empires. 

Helena: —Why, Roger, you almost take my breath away; 
I have observed your moods of silence and thoughtfulness late¬ 
ly, but I was at a loss to understand them. This, then, is why 
you have sought such strange companionships, read such unusual 
books, and at times asked questions which seemed enigmas to 
your father and me. I, too, have a love for the past and its 
traditions, but can see the danger of these modern ideas which 
seem to strive to bring a conflict between the elements of society, 
and can lead to but one thing. You must know, or at least 
you will find it out, that those who are called radicals in every 


[ 60 ] 


avocation of life are bent on destroying the old which you say 
you revere, and establishing something new and different. It 
is dangerous to the social system in which we mingle and are 
respected members. Don’t, for the sake of our good name, im¬ 
bibe any of these destructive ideas—things which pull down, but 
put nothing worth while in the place of the old. For genera¬ 
tions our family name has been respected as representing the 
solid, substantial elements in the neighborhood of which it has 
been a part. The integrity of its standing has been unques¬ 
tioned. It has done its share to support loyally the government, 
and the church, and in all things it has kept aloof from 
notoriety and sensationalism. I have thought of you always as 
my well-beloved and only son who would go on in these tra¬ 
ditions that your father and I might feel our lives had kept 
the faith with the established order. Please do not, for our 
sakes, allow yourself to be led away. 

Roger ( absent mindedly) : —See, mother, it is spring. 
The lilacs are all aflame. There is something in them that 
must come out—some beauty that has been hidden within them¬ 
selves and now seeks expression. I feel it, too, within me, and 
with the spring there is the mounting pulse ( getting up from 
his chair in his rising enthusiasm) O, the joy of it! The 
knowing that one may take beauty out of the unknown and 
give it expression. I care not for all the things at which men 
seem to grasp—all are sordid, not worth the effort. Give me 
the power to draw one beautiful flower, or paint one human 
face, and I will be content, for therein I know, young as I am, 
lies the only happiness. 

Paul, Helena and Annette (in one breath) —Roger! 
What is possessing you? Are you crazy? 

Roger ( looking away from them) :—No, no, you don’t 
understand—you can’t understand. That is the misfortune of 
it all: to know that I have within me the richest, rarest treas¬ 
ure of life—and then to feel how hopeless it all is to you—you 
who are nearest to me—you who love me—and yet, who cannot 
understand. 

Paul: —My son, some evil influence has come into your 
life of which we are all ignorant. You must know that your 
mother and I are counting on you; we shall soon be in the 
relaxing years and it’s you upon whom the responsibilities must 
fall. You know what these artists are, men and women living 


[ 61 ] 


irregular lives, many of them lacking respectability, without 
which our social structure cannot endure. If the ideals of 
Art are so beautiful why do they not influence the lives of the 
artists? I cannot reconcile the situation, and our pastor in his 
sermon last Sunday made note of the decay of the standards in 
American life due undoubtedly to the loose personalities of actors 
and artists. While our country is forging ahead everywhere in 
its business development, bringing the blessings of religion and 
civilization to every faraway land, becoming a guardian in fact 
to the untold millions who are living in darkness and ignorance, 
we should at least lead consistent lives, if only for the example 
it gives them. Look at Haiti, San Domingo, Cuba, Mexico, 
Hawaii, the Philippines, Porto Rico, Central America, Liberia, 
and all the Colonies of England. The English speaking nations 
have thrown the benefit of their protection around them and 
as soon as they have eyes to see they will realize that great 
human influences toward brotherhood are guiding these two 
world empires, undoubtedly carrying forward some divine pur¬ 
pose of which we cannot know. Come now, boy, forget these 
things and be yourself again. Be a true American, and follow 
the flag. 

Roger: —Somehow I cannot feel the reality of all this; I 
have heard it said, after the armistice was declared and the war 
at an end, that the whole horrible catastrophe was a fight be¬ 
tween nations for commercial supremacy. It was our young 
lives which were put up, not willingly, but by conscription, 
that one side or the other should have the supremacy. I can 
never forget or forgive the men who are responsible for this. 
Fourteen millions of young men like me, father, who will never 
come back again. These have paid the price. I cannot follow 
such flags, for I know where they lead—and why they are 
leading. The world has not yet seen the end, for the hatreds 
of one nation for another were never as great as now, but 
I know this: That the love of beautiful things has never borne 
such fruit, and therefore I shall strive with all the power that 
in me lies to live away from the insidiousness of this great 
poison. St. George never had such a dragon to fight as hu¬ 
manity has today. For brother is set against brother that the 
insolence of wealth may be the greater conqueror. 

Annette :—I believe you have been reading my book. You 
talk and rave just as the man did who had such a horrible 


[ 62 ] 


fascination for my heroine. I am disgusted with you, as I was 
with the book. 

Helena: —Roger, you are breaking my heart. Just to 
think—after all these years. I know you will do something 
terrible to bring scandal on our good names and reputations. 

Roger:—I never again can lead what people call “a re¬ 
spectable life”—it stifles me—just as if all life was cast in a 
mold and could not run for itself where it willed. Sometimes 
I feel the fires within me so hot that I cannot rest—burning 
the dross away—making my mind clear of these cobwebs of 
convention. Away with it all! From this time forth I will 
be myself, and live my own life. O, the sweetness of free¬ 
dom; to know that the manacles are gone—that I may follow 
my Mentor. 

Helena: —Yes, Roger, your Mentor is a diseased con¬ 
science,—distorted by some unhallowed influence. You will 
have your fling, and in the consuming fires you are talking about 
you will find that life will burn itself back again to the old 
standards. I cannot break your will, but I shall wait patiently 
for this disease to wear itself out, and then our old Roger will 
come back to us. Goodnight, my boy. Come, father, let us 
go for the night. ( Paul and Helena leave , the latter kissing 
Roger good-night.) 

Roger:— Goodnight, mother; I shall dream of Jean 
d’Arc and her white banner. The Voices, too, whispered 
within her, and nothing ever after could withstand her will 
to answer their demands. I feel this same spirit within my 
soul—and it will never die. 

Annette :—Roger, you are a funny boy. 

Roger:—I am no longer a boy—I have become a serious 

man. 

Annette: —Why waste your years on problems? I hate 
people with problems. 

Roger: — I have observed that is the case with almost 
every one of late. Why is there such a spirit of restlessness? 
Has life lost something which it had before the war? 

Annette: —Why, life seems more interesting now—we 
have a world to reconstruct. The war was the one thing neces¬ 
sary to prepare a way for better things. 


[ 63 ] 


Roger: —Then tell me the reason of this distrust of one 
nation for another. Why, especially, do we fail to find our old 
friend and ally—Russia, persona non grata? 

Annette: —Yes, there you are; you commence to defend 
that horrible lot of men who wish to divide the property of 
those who have it, with those who haven’t. 

Roger: —Well, you are a Christian; tell me the difference 
between what they are after, and what Christ taught? 

Annette: —O, that is different; the disciples of Christ 
were all poor men, and He only asked them to share alike. He 
would not have asked a wealthy church to have done this. Be¬ 
sides, did He not say: “Render unto Caesar the things that are 
Caesar’s”? You must recognize the great difference which 
twenty centuries have made. Then there was no industrial 
world and He was speaking only of conditions which existed. 
The history of the Greeks before Him reveals that fact most 
potently—a few only were the real people—the others, the mass 
as we say—were slaves and followers. 

Roger: —But what about our own government? It is 
said that all men are created free, and with an equal oppor¬ 
tunity. Are they ? 

Annette: —Yes, it all depends upon the person. If one 
works hard and saves he can become wealthy; and then wealth 
secures any position he desires in life. Americans are a strik¬ 
ing example of thrift. 

Roger: —Can any one become president of the United 
States ? 

Annette: —Why, certainly; why not? 

Roger: —Could a negro, an indian, a Roman Catholic, a 
foreign born, a jew or an infidel, a woman, a poet, or a mu¬ 
sician,—only a Poland, or a Budapest would be guilty of those 
last. 

Annette: —How absurd! How can you be so foolish 
and extreme. You know they are not the kind of people presi¬ 
dents have been made of. They are not like us. 

Roger: —Yet they count as three-fourths of us. Tell me, 
Annette, do you think presidents are created nowadays for what 
they are of themselves, or for what they represent. 

Annette :—I don’t know what you mean, but I do know 
they are high types of religious men and sincerely try to repre¬ 
sent the people. Does not each of them before he is elected de- 


[ 64 ] 


clare his love for the bible and the newspapers always tell what 
church he regularly attends, and how devoted he is to the 
principles of American liberty. How can such a man go very 
far wrong? 

Roger: —Did you ever hear of a man named Eugene 
Debs? 

Annette: —No, I never did. Why do you ask? 

Roger: —I never knew about him until lately. It seems 
he was opposed to the war, and said it was brutal to send our 
young men off to some foreign country to be killed or maimed 
against their wills. For this he was arrested and sent to the 
Federal prison at Atlanta and kept there for several years. He 
has always been a friend of the common people, and at one 
time he was their candidate for president, and received a mil¬ 
lion votes. He is a gentle, Christ-like character who loves his 
fellow men, and who has spent all his life seeking human 
brotherhood. It did not seem right that long after the war 
was over he should be kept in prison with what we call ordi¬ 
nary criminals and felons, when he simply tried to be faithful 
to the teachings of Christ. But it was only the other day, and 
largely because his health had completely broken down that 
they let him out to go home to his wife—probably to die. 

Annette: —Well, it served him right; all such talk and 
actions lead only to disrespect for the law, and if we are to 
continue as a nation we must have law enforcers and law 
obeyers, or we shall be no better than the people of Russia. We 
live for ourselves—in our own way—which we believe to be 
the best. If other people decide to do differently—let them— 
it is their privilege. 

Roger: —Is that the reason we send missionaries to what 
we call the heathen lands? They have their religion—why 
interfere ? 

Annette: —O, well, that is another affair. We know 
our religion is the only true one, and must prevail. Besides, it 
is our duty to convert these heathen. It makes more business for 
us if they become civilized, and need the same things we need. 

Roger: —Well, that may be good logic for us, but I sus¬ 
pect the missionaries are not educated up to this view of their 
usefulness. 

Annette: —No, they are sincere, earnest people who de¬ 
vote their lives to a sacred cause. I don’t think I would wish 


[ 65 ] 


to marry one of them, though. I would rather stay at home 
and support them. Some of us must do this, of course. 

(Telephone rings and Roger answers.) 

Roger: —It is Lenox, Annette, just returned to the city 
from a business trip. He wishes to speak to you. 

(Annette goes to the phone which is in a closet and after 
a moment returns , during which time Roger lights a cigarette 
and stands looking again at his Whistler hook.) 

Annette: —Lenox is such a fine fellow, he is just alive 
to his work. You know he has been taken in as a junior part¬ 
ner in his law firm which does such a lot of work for our big 
corporations. I am sure he will achieve a great career. He 
asked me if he could call tomorrow evening. I hope you will 
meet him—he is my ideal of what a young man should be, and 
I would be glad to have you know him better. 

Roger: —Yes, Annette, I shall be pleased to do so. ( Going 
to window and looking out.) What a beautiful night it is! 
Stars, and moon, and quite warm for spring. Come with me 
for a little—out into the garden where we can see the sleeping 
flowers, and Orion slipping away in the west that Arcturus 
may come with her bouquets of summer’s warmth. Nature 
tells such a wonderful story to me. I feel my own insignificance 
in its grandeur. The eyes of the stars are like a great god 
watching his handiwork, and finding it is good. Come, Annette, 
just for a little while—your dreams will be made fragrant by 
the sweet odors of night. 

(They pass out together.) 

Curtain 


ACT II. 

(Scene same as Act I, the following evening; family en¬ 
gaged in reading and conversation; Roger listening to the Lieh- 
estraum record that he has placed in the victrola.) 

Roger: —Annette, is there not something in the Liebes- 
traum which stirs your young heart? I am preparing you for 
your caller—he may be looking for a lover, and this, I am sure, 
will put you in a responsive mood. 


[ 66 ] 


Annette: —How absurd, you young rascal! Just be¬ 
cause you had me out under your stars last night you think 
I’m romantic and susceptible. 

Roger: —Well, Annette, I have some hopes of you. If I 
can only get your heart in action I shall believe there are pos¬ 
sibilities. I am a propagandist—a thorough one now, and will 
not be satisfied until I shatter at least some of your conven¬ 
tionalities. 

Helena ( Embroidering and taking in the music and chat¬ 
ter of the young people ) :—Roger, I am ashamed of you. An¬ 
nette is old enough now to decide things for herself without any 
invidious persuasion on your part. You may get there your¬ 
self some day—although I begin to think you are hopeless. 

Roger: —I must say, mother, the subject of marriage does 
not trouble my dreams very much. All the society girls I know 
use it by which to climb a ladder, and the worth-while girls in 
my set are too busy. 

Annette: —“Your set?” What do you mean by “your 
set” ? I suppose that tutor of yours has been putting you up to 
this kind of talk. I have had my suspicions of him now for 
some time. I think I can see the cause of your downfall. All 
of these preposterous ideas you have voiced lately seem to origi¬ 
nate from about the time he started to teach you. I suppose 
he has been taking you out evenings, too,—no one knows where 
—but I suspect to some of these bohemian dens of vice on the 
lower North Side. I have heard about them—where the girls 
and boys sit around and smoke cigarettes, and talk art, and 
the revolution. It is enough to disgust any respectable person 
to know that such things are tolerated—not to say found at¬ 
tractive by those of good families. 

Helena: —Is this true, Roger? Have you been doing this 
without letting your mother know? I employed Mr. Mansfield 
to cultivate your mind,—not plant weeds in it. 

Roger: —Well, I am not ashamed to tell you what I have 
been doing,—I did not do so because I knew you would not 
understand. There are two kinds of people in the world it is 
said—ninety-nine per cent of one and one per cent of the other. 
I have found that I am congenial with the one per cent, and 
when one finds this out he becomes a part of it, and loses caste 
with the others. Inasmuch as self-respect is a large part of his 
makeup he simply goes along with his possession and, as an artist 


[ 67 ] 


in thought at least, knows himself and what real life is. Of 
course you have not read Shaw’s “Doctor’s Dilemma,” but if 
you had you would place a wreath on the grave of Louis 
Dubedat. 

Annette: —Yes, Bernard Shaw—he is another of those 
corrupters of youth. I never see his likeness but I think of the 
devil. Certainly he is the devil’s disciple. I think, Roger, you 
are hopeless, if you have fallen into that man’s clutches. Now 
that you mention him I can see his echoes in many things about 
which you have talked lately. 

Roger: —Well, he certainly stirs up one’s dusty mind. I 
wish every young American could read his plays. 

Annette :—Mere platitudes—just to pose as a sensational¬ 
ist. He is like that man Ibsen, who did the same thing and 
got himself disliked by all sensible and really scholarly people. 
Strindberg and his following have done more to upset the 
minds of our youth than any other modern influence, and 
Arthur Schnitzler is impossible. Look at that German 
Nietzsche—the brute—no wonder the Kaiser thought he 
was called of God to run things. By their fruits ye shall 
know them. You will find out some day, Roger, how mistaken 
you are in your leadership. As for me I am satisfied to let Wil¬ 
liam Jennings Bryan and Mr. Rockefeller run things—they 
know how—and will save our nation from such anarchists. 

Roger: —Well, I confess that the ninety-nine per cent have 
a strong pull. They say txiat the Saturday Evening Post and the 
Ladies Home Journal are the molds which “can” the thought of 
the American people. Now we have Mother’s Day and Poppy 
Day, and all kinds of Tag Days to catch the unwary. I sup¬ 
pose pretty soon they will think of poor Father, and have a day 
for him. The long-suffering beast that he is! I feel for my 
own father—I know he is so complaisant and docile. I would 
like to hear him talk with one of our artistic girls for a few 
minutes, to let him see what a back-number he is. 

Paul :—What is that, Roger ? Are you talking carelessly 
about your progenitor behind his back? Don’t forget he knew 
all about these cigarette girls when he was young, but he doesn’t 
remember that they talked about philosophy and art. 

Helena:— Paul, you and Roger are disturbers of the 
peace. I believe you sympathize with the boy and are laughing 
in your sleeve at his vagaries. You may be sorry for it, for 


[ 68 ] 


the disease he has is different from the one you had. His goes 
to the soul of things—yours was “wild oats.” I am sure most 
men are farmers when they are very young, but Roger is what 
he calls “spiritual,” and it requires a very different doctor to 
cure that. 

Annette: —It is about time for Lenox to come. I hope 
you will not advance any of your absurd theories, Roger, in 
his presence—he might upset some of them. He is a lawyer, 
you know. 

Helena: —No, Roger, for gracious sake talk sense. He is 
Annette’s friend, and you have no right to create false impres¬ 
sions on her account. 

Roger:—I will be good—if I can. 

(Bell is heard ringing distantly , and maid ushers in Lenox 
Craig. All rise to greet him and evince pleasure at his call.) 

Lenox: —It is indeed a pleasure to meet you all again. 
Annette, how well you look! Have you been motoring in the 
country, or passing a few weeks at French Lick? I have been 
away so long that I am really a valuable critic of your looks. 

Annette: —You have been away a long time Lenox. It 
must be since Christmas. I think we last met about the holi¬ 
day time. 

Lenox: —Yes, I think it was. Shortly after, my firm was 
retained to defend the American Coal Company in some labor 
cases in West Virginia, and the job was assigned to me; so I 
have had about three months of rusticating in the hills. Mar¬ 
velous country! Between times I took little runs down to Ashe¬ 
ville to have some golf at the Grove Park Inn. This was in¬ 
deed a pleasant break in the miserable work I had to do. These 
miners are quite impossible you know;—such extraordinary de¬ 
mands—one would think they owned the mines themselves in¬ 
stead of our company. Well, we soon showed them their place, 
and they are now all back at work at the old prices. 

Roger :—What was the trouble, Lenox ? 

Lenox: —The old one of forming unions, which we will 
not tolerate in the free State of West Virginia. The American 
Coal Company has pursued the “hands off” policy for many 
years—ever since the question of unions came up—and it has 
insisted, as it has a right to do, that it shall run its own business 
in its own way and not be dictated to by the employes. These 
foreigners come to this country and are not satisfied with the 


[ 69 ] 


liberties they enjoy under our government, but like any one 
else—if they are given some rights they never had before they 
want a lot more. Well, we simply shut down and starved them 
out; then they had to come back at the old price and it taught 
them a good lesson. Our company has its own stores at which 
they must buy their supplies, and owns the houses in which 
they live, and when we shut off their groceries, and commenced 
to evict them and their families,—this was more than they could 
stand. We didn’t lose anything, you may be sure, for when 
there was a shortage of coal because of the strike we raised the 
price of what we had in reserve and the public “paid the 
freight.” 

Roger: —That was good business, wasn’t it? How very 
clever these good business concerns are. I suppose they consider 
labor the same as any other commodity, and treat it accordingly. 
Did you have much unrest and disturbance during the shut¬ 
down ? 

Lenox: —O, yes, but the governor sent the state troops 
as soon as we asked him, and we also had a small army of guards 
which are used by different companies at times of troubles of 
this kind. Labor has got to learn its place. We must respect 
the law in this country—above all that is the one thing for 
which this nation stands. We will see to it, however, that the 
laws are made intelligently, and for the best interests of those 
who ought to control things. 

Roger: —Is it easy to do this? 

Lenox :—Certainly; the Associations of Commerce all over 
the country, who are made up of our best business men, see to 
that. It does not make any difference whether or not a man 
is a Republican, or a Democrat, as long as he is “right” other¬ 
wise; in fact, it keeps things better regulated where the parties 
in power are evenly balanced; their differences nowadays are 
more apparent than real. 

Roger: —I am greatly interested in what you say. Tell 
me, how is this thing arranged. For instance, how was it de¬ 
cided at the last presidential convention as to whom to select as 
a candidate ? The man nominated and elected was not one who 
had been prominently mentioned. 

Lenox :—Oh, that is simple to those of us who know what 
goes on behind the scenes. Of course you have heard of Wall 
street, and know what it signifies. 


[ 70 ] 


Roger: —-Well, I am young, and have not had much ex¬ 
perience; I expect father knows—don’t you, father? 

Paul: —O, yes, Wall street is like the great wall about 
China—it tells you what your limitations are. It is a good ther¬ 
mometer on the price of oil, and other things, and plays world 
politics magnificently. 

Lenox: —Well, Wall street is the “Josh” for a coterie of 
big bankers who have controlling ownership in every large Bank, 
Industrial Corporation, Mine and Railroad in the Country. Of 
course in order to “carry on” these must control legislation. This 
is done through the great law firms whose influence in politics 
extends everywhere so that the proper and acceptable persons are 
elected as representatives of the voters. The voters, of course, 
have little or nothing to say, but it makes on the face of it, good 
democracy. Of course, the press is all under the control in 
one way or another, of this same great interest which holds in 
subjection all of the other avenues of public expression, like the 
magazines, movies, pulpits and Press Associations. You can 
see, therefore, how easy it is to decide who shall be president 
of the United States, and what he shall do after he is elected. 

Roger: —Well, well, this is all very interesting. I don’t 
think many boys when they finish school, realize that this is 
the kind of world they are stepping into. It all seems so differ¬ 
ent from the histories which we have studied. Didn’t it all ap¬ 
pear unreal to you, Lenox, when you were graduated from 
school into the business world? 

Lenox: —O, yes, of course; one must get used to these 
modern methods. But things are not what they formerly were. 
We take the philosopher’s advice now and make the shortest cut 
to get what we want. That is evidence of the practical nature 
of the American business mind. 

Roger: —Then the idealism of youth does not count as 
an asset in a business man’s life? 

Lenox: —No; theories are fine teachings—but the appli¬ 
cation must be a practical one. 

Roger: —I do not think I shall ever become a business 
man. Somehow there does not seem to be any room there for 
the dreamer—and that is what I am. Sometimes when I look 
out into the great world I see dream people all about me who 
act as though they felt the enthusiasm of the olden days of 
Greece: beauty was the one standard by which the Greeks found 


[ 71 ] 


their values. The love of learning and knowing things was 
their inspiration, and when one among them could surpass in 
the expression of his imagination, through poetry or the arts, 
he was set apart as a leader and benefactor. It seems to me 
that idealism is evolution set to music and poetry—where the 
beautiful in life becomes the supreme value. 

Annette :—That last expression of yours, Roger, sounds 
like Oscar Wilde. I suppose he is one of your patron saints 
just now. I noticed you had been reading very lately “Lady 
Windermere’s Fan,”—digging into it as though it were filled 
with gold. I always think of Wilde as the man who talked of 
nothing but asphodels and amethysts, and signified his person¬ 
ality by wearing a chrysanthemum—or was it a daisy—in his 
buttonhole. Such men should be put to hard labor. 

Roger: —Well, he was once, and when in jail wrote one 
of the finest poems in the English language. However, your 
speaking of him makes me think that I am rehearsing this eve¬ 
ning for the part of Cecil Graham in his “Lady Windermere’s 
Fan” and that I must beg to be excused now to join the com¬ 
pany. I did not tell you of this before because I thought you 
might not understand. We play in a little theatre up on North 
Clark street—behind a bookstore—Mr. Mansfield told me about 
it. He goes there quite often, and I found it not only interest¬ 
ing, but the players to be really quite clever. I have learned 
many things for which the one per cent really stand and they 
seem to suit dreamers like me. Goodnight, I am sorry I must 
go—our talk has been most illuminating. (Goes out.) 

Paul: —Helena, it is now nearly nine o’clock; you remem- 
we have spoken about “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” 
and what a rage it has been with every one—I am ashamed that 
we have not seen the picture. Let us go before the opportunity 
is lost of our ever seeing it. We can just make it now if we 
hurry along. Get on your wraps and I will call the motor. 

Helena: —I shall be delighted, Paul; I have heard so 
many speak of the wonderful scenes. Yes, let us go. Annrtte, 
can you and Lenox excuse us, and will you find a way to pass 
the time by yourselves, Lenox? (Extending her hand to him 
as he has risen.) I hope we shall see you often now that you 
are b^ck in Chicago. 

Lenox: —Yes, Mrs. Baldwin, I know of no place more 
enticing than your home. 


[ 72 ] 


Paul and Helena: —Goodnight. 

Lenox: —Well, this is more luck than I had dreamed of. 

Annette: —How so, Lenox, what meanest thou? 

Lenox: —To be alone with you—entirely alone. 

Annette: —And is that such a remarkable thing? I hope 
you have a lot to tell me about the great, wide world. How 
little we girls who are cloistered at home know about things; 
—but you men, you go everywhere, and see, and do things. Do 
you suppose a woman will ever be free to follow her own life 
as she really would like to do? 

Lenox ( Getting up and walking around nervously ):— 
Woman was not made to face the world and its vexations— 
that is a man’s job; and every real man who is chivalrous by 
nature will make a woman’s burdens as light as possible. Love 
of man for a woman is a big thing, Annette, I have been think¬ 
ing about it a great deal lately. The past three months, since 
I have been away from Chicago, the need of something more 
in my life has haunted me day and night, and I have been im¬ 
patient for the time to pass that I might return again. 

Annette: —Why, Lenox, how restless you are; why do 
you keep walking about the room? Tell me what is troubling 
you? 

Lenox ( Stopping before her and looking into her face in¬ 
tently) :—Annette, if I was facing the jury in a court to plead 
for my client I would be self-possessed, know my arguments 
thoroughly, make my appeal eloquently and feel satisfied that I 
would win my case—but now I stammer, and hesitate. I had 
everything to say to you when I came here this evening—now 
I have nothing. Annette, what shall I say? I love you, I have 
felt something more than friendship for a long while, but was 
not sure of myself until I went away and realized the great 
void in my life. I have come back to tell you of it, and to 
ask you to become my wife. Annette, don’t look at me so; may 
I hope? (Getting down on one knee before her and taking 
her hand.) 

Annette :—You must realize that this is a great surprise 
to me, Lenox; I don’t know what to say. What does a young 
girl say when she is brought face to face with her fate? 

Lenox: —Dearest, what does your heart say? Let me 
plead my case,—I feel sure you will not turn me away. I 
realize that I may not meet your ideals, but I offer you my 


[ 73 ] 


life and love—my determination to live and work for your 
happiness. I am sure that I shall succeed, for I have youth, 
and health, and every prospect of success in business—with 
you I can do anything. If I only know I have your love there 
is nothing that shall be impossible. Say that you love me, 
Annette; it will be the sweetest word I have ever heard— 
without it I shall be miserable, for you are the only one in 
the wide world for whom I could ever feel in this way. 

Annette: —You touch me deeply, Lenox, this all seems 
such a solemn thing—it all means such a great change—every¬ 
thing will be different. If I only thought that everything 
would be all right. Does love last forever? It all seems so 
beautiful now—just like the spring—but I know the spring 
commences to die as soon as it is born. Is love like that? If 
I thought so I would wish to die, Lenox. I want love, and 
such love as will dedicate my whole life to the one it is be¬ 
stowed upon. Does not married life become commonplace by 
taking too much for granted? Is there not something about 
its intimacies that creates irritations and misunderstandings? 
Do lovers become less patient with one another, less careful 
about appearances—less tolerant of their differences? I am 
afraid of a future which binds two people together “until death 
does them part.” Tell me, Lenox, have you thought of all 
these things? 

Lenox: —Oh, what’s the use, Annette—all I know is that 
I love you, and shall always love you. The future has no 
problems for me—trust me, dearest, I will give you the devo¬ 
tion of a lifetime. 

Annette:— Well, Lenox, I will trust you; I believe you 
to be the sincerest, finest man in the whole world—I feel 
proud to say “Yes.” Kiss me, Lenox, I love you too. (He rises , 
and puts his arms around her , and kisses her.) 

Lenox:-- -You have made me very proud and happy, An¬ 
nette, I thought you might like me only as a friend, and I was 
so afraid, but now—the joy of it all. How life seems to rush 
upon one—the whole world throws its arms around you—and 
smiles; you become the center of the Universe where the multi¬ 
tudes pass in obeisance, while you look up to the stars and 
dream of the countless years of the future where the King of 
the Golden River takes you on an endless honeymoon in his 
beautiful boat, drawn by the undying white swans, which have 


[ 74 ] 


served lovers since the first days of Eden. O, Annette, I am 
intoxicated with joy! Come, my love, let us go together out 
into the night and tell the stars our wonderful story. (Go out 
into the garden, arms about each other.) 


ACT III 

(Scene as Acts I and II ,— lights in living-room are low , 
there is no one present. It is the evening following at about 
10 o'clock. Enter Roger , Richard Mansfield , Jerome Hunt 
and Fritz von Liebknecht.) 

Roger: —Ah, no one at home! We shall have such a 
jolly good time, not a soul to bore with our vagaries. 

Jerome: —After our visit at St. Peter’s tonight I should 
think you would dignify our feelings by a more responsible 
word. I am always deeply moved by the quiet of religious 
contemplation. Those Franciscans in the great simplicity and 
plainness of their lives, are certainly carrying the gospel of 
Christ to a world that has gone very far away from his teach¬ 
ings. 

Richard:—D o you know the story of St. Francis? I 
have been reading it lately. 

Roger :—Let’s start the samovar and have a few cigarettes 
and tea. It will be great fun to sit around in this dim light 
and have a talk-fest—eh, Fritz? Or would you rather play 
the Moonlight Sonata while we dream of Endymion asleep on 
the mountain as Selene comes each night to keep her watch. 

Fritz: —Well, let’s talk first, and then, if there is any 
time, I will play for you a little. But you know what happens 
when I get started—don’t blame me. (They pass the tea and 
light cigarettes.) 

Jerome: —Well, Richard, what about St. Francis? 

Richard: —I have always admired St. Francis of Assisi— 
not for his profound scholarship, but as an example of the 
brave and stubborn type of mind which will not allow ob¬ 
stacles of birth and wealth to defeat its ambitions. He was 
born of a well-to-do family at Assisi, in 1181 , and had every 
promise of a comfortable, well ordered life of the conventional 
type—but just one thing in his make-up urged his feet into 
untrodden paths: the spirit of the pioneer. You can imagine 


[ 75 ] 


a young man of romantic disposition and a heart tender for 
everything in life, unwilling to continue an existence which 
meant more riches and more power. He would even, before his 
great determination, have given his last garment to some one 
needy—and, indeed, he literally did this, so that his parents 
were ashamed of the rags with which he clothed his nakedness. 
Of course there could be but one future for such a fanatic—and 
so to him has fallen the honor of establishing the great Order 
of Franciscans in the Roman Catholic Church, which has exem¬ 
plified the poverty and simplicity of its great leader—Jesus 
Christ. 

Roger: —I was on the Board of Trade a few days ago, 
and saw and heard some fanatics there. There were groups 
of screaming, rushing, pushing, red-faced men with their 
fingers held up at each other in a mad turmoil. I thought 
there must have been some horrible tragedy enacted somewhere, 
but was told it was nothing unusual—just speculating and 
trading in wheat, or stocks. 

Jerome:— Yes, there it is; these same men will go to 
St. Peter’s, as we have done, and in the quiet aisles, cross 
themselves and kneel to the figure of St. Francis, and the Virgin 
Mother, asking forgiveness for their sins, and then go di¬ 
rectly back to the gambling pit and repeat the operation over 
again. 

Fritz :—Ah, life does not take hold of them as music took 
hold of Beethoven, or religion of St. Francis. If I might order 
it I would have every church a place for contemplation—where 
one could go away by himself and sit with his thoughts, in the 
quiet of a great cathedral with its marvelous windows, splen¬ 
did altars, wonderful pictures of the lives of the saints, and 
listen to the soft and soothing music of a deep-toned organ 
which gives forth its tenderness from some remote shadow of 
the dim, religious light. I think if American men and women 
had more of this emotion for the picturesque, and less for the 
practical, their lives would be richer and fuller. 

Jerome:— Yes, when I visit our Art Institute I think of 
this too,—how few types of representative men and women we 
meet there, but a great army of the unknown—mostly of a 
foreign type, who seem to realize beauty at least, if not great¬ 
ness of creation in Art. I visited the Layton Gallery in Mil- 


[ 76 ] 


waukee not long ago, in which are hung some of the finest 
types of the productions of the really great artists of the world. 
It was Sunday afternoon—and the hour I spent there seemed 
all too short;—but from that city of a half-million of people 
there was not present in the gallery over a dozen. 

Roger: —Well, perhaps they have all seen these pictures. 

Jerome: —Probably very few of them—but will not a 
great picture last with one forever? Can you get tired of it? 
You know some in our own gallery that are world-wide known 
—great pictures are great thoughts and you can as easily lose 
to the world a Hamlet, or a King Lear, as the soul of a great 
picture. 

Fritz :—Or the soul of a Sonata,—or a Symphony. 

Richard: —Well, our talk of St. Francis has certainly 
stimulated us. How strangely conversation breaks away from 
its original theme. But I think it all goes to show the im¬ 
mortality of a great thought—however expressed. Shakespeare, 
St. Francis, Beethoven, Bastien Lepage, are symbols of the 
power of expression—each powerful in his own way; and still, 
to the man with a various mind, revealing the many sidedness 
of the picture which he is portraying. Here are four of us 
sitting together tonight. Suppose we are looking at a wonder¬ 
ful mountain, and are able to see it from different points of 
view. We should all have a different story to tell of this 
mountain. It would be literature to me, poetry to Roger, music 
to Fritz and painting to Jerome. The same great and won¬ 
derful mountain is reflected in the various moods of the seers. 
Great mountains of some kind are to be found everywhere, but 
it is the eye of the seer which counts. 

Fritz: —I could tell you a lot about this in music. To 
some the Old Masters have the only message, but there are 
many others who are looking for something new and fantastic, 
especially now that we seem to be in a superficial era, where 
real value does not count for much. I have tried myself, at 
the Symphony concerts, to find some values in what they call 
the new music; and only within a month or so Roger and I 
heard a symphony performed which was the work of a young 
Chicago composer and seemed representative of the type that 
is attracting so many just now. The orchestra had played 
selections from Beethoven, including the Moonlight Sonata, 


[ 77 ] 


and we were entirely carried away with the majesty of the 
latter music. 

Roger: —Yes, I remember; and when the modern sym¬ 
phony was played afterward, the distance in the comparative 
values was strongly felt by the entire audience. I know I sat 
down at once, after reaching home, and wrote my impressions 
of the two numbers in form of poems, so that I could afterwards 
recall the circumstances. 

Richard: —Would you mind reading the poems to us, 
Roger? I, for one, feel the tremendous decadence of Art in 
its many expressions, and would like to know just how you 
felt about this particular instance. 

Jerome: —Yes, do, Roger, it will be of great value to 
us all. 

Roger (Going to a desk and bringing out a folio of 
papers :) I like to commit my experiences to a poetic form. There 
is so much in life which attracts, and whenever I read an inter¬ 
esting book, hear an instructive lecture, look at a wonderful 
picture, or listen to fascinating music—whatever of value clings 
to me I try to express in a form which I may keep with me 
always, for these events are red-letter times in my life and I 
can go back to them always and feel again the thrill of that 
first moment. So much of inspiration would be lost to me if 
I could not do this. 

Richard: —I think it the good fortune of all poets to sift 
the fine things of life apart, and hold them in a delightful 
possession. How many there are who have not the divine gift 
of a blind Homer, and still are thrilled, like thousands of others, 
at his inimitable tales of fact and fancy. (Telephone rings , and 
Roger , who is about to read his poems , steps into the closet .) 
( Richard , looking at his watch .) It is after eleven; we ought 
not to stay as the Baldwins will soon be home and will believe 
we have taken possession. I don’t think they are exactly fond 
of bohemians. (Roger returns with an exclamation of pleasure .) 

Roger: —O, ho, my folks are all up at my aunt’s at a 
bridge party in Winnetka, and have been persuaded to spend 
the night—they called to tell me not to be lonesome. I said 
I had an army of invisible spirits to entertain me, and would 
take good care of the house. Now we can stay as long as we 
can stand each other. I am sure we shall conjure up some 


[ 78 ] 


conspiracy that may save the ninety-nine per cent from its ter¬ 
rible fate. 

Richard: —Yes, Roger, you know the one per cent is indi¬ 
visible, and therefore a compelling force that will slowly but 
surely assert itself; while the ninety-nine per cent is divided, and 
susceptible to the weakness of division. To my mind the ninety- 
nine per cent are now separated into four distinct parts—no two 
of them friendly. First there are the patricians—the noble army 
of social millionaires, the four hundred who occupy the old 
chairs of State and dispense dignity and ancestry to ennoble 
our American traditions. These often intermarry with the 
European nobility. Then there is the great army of the bour¬ 
geois—the self-made people who have risen from poverty and 
mediocrity to affluence and influence in a generation. Many 
of them of European peasant origin, but now leaders in the 
organizations of Democracy. They are the backbone of Com¬ 
merce Associations, Business Men’s Protective Societies, Ku 
Klux in the South, Radical hunters in the North. They print 
cards to hang in the banks and shops which tell the inquiring 
public that they “Believe in the American Constitution,” the 
“Ten Commandments” and “The Golden Rule.” They don’t of 
course know any of the Constitution because they call them¬ 
selves one-hundred-per-cent Americans, which they are not. They 
certainly do not practice all of the ten commandments, and as 
for the golden rule, nine out of ten would quote it as saying: 
“Do others first before they do you.” 

The third class is called the proletariat—supposed to be 
the great army of workers—with hands—for wages. Great 
bodies of these are organized as unions, and these unions are 
split up into conservatives and radicals. The conservatives do 
all the talking and the radicals do all the fighting. The prole¬ 
tariat really has the potentiality within itself to control the poli¬ 
tics of the country, but has not the leadership to leave the two old 
parties and launch out for itself. It is wasting its great possi¬ 
bilities under the dictates of high-salaried officials who will not 
risk their jobs by taking independent action. 

The last division is the straggling and struggling hoi 
polloi —the unskilled and uncivilized army of derelicts which 
floats around without any permanent or visible means of sup¬ 
port. These will be the adventurers in any unholy war, or the 
mob-makers at any theatre which has a place for them in its 


[ 79 ] 


plays. They will shout loudly in any cause and are easily satis¬ 
fied with the morsels thrown to them in compensation. “Theirs 
is not to reason why,” nor is it “to do and die”; they are the 
flotsam and jetsam of a democracy. 

Jerome: —You have well named them all, Richard. I 
am prouder than ever to belong to the indivisible one per cent. 
What has become of your poems, Roger ? I have been thinking 
about them ever since the telephone rang. 

Richard : — Pardon me, for the diversion, Roger, but 
your remark about conspiracy to save the ninety-nine per cent 
stirred my mind to the long drawn out definition I have given. 
Proceed. 

Roger: —Well, the first poem was the impression given 
me by Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, and carried my mind 
with it to the old Greek legend of Endymion, because the moon 
and the moonlight played such an important part in his career. 
The scene is on the plain of Caria, where Mt. Latmus stands, 
and Selene, the moon goddess, became so enamored of the 
beautiful shepherd, Endymion, that she visited him every night 
until Zeus noticed it, and he called her to account for her 
neglect of the world. The result was that Endymion was left 
to her, but put to an eternal sleep by the touch of her lips. 
His youthful appearance, with a smile on his face, never changed. 
Now for the first poem. 

Fritz:— Just a moment, Roger, you have got me all 
stirred up with your talk about Endymion. Let’s make a 
picture of this. The full moon is now shining outside—put 
out the lights and draw up the curtains so that we may have 
Selene with us, too,—I will play softly Beethoven’s Moonlight 
Sonata while you read the poem. 

Richard:— Splendid, Fritz, this will indeed be an in¬ 
spiration. (Puts down lights and lifts curtains.) 

Jerome:— Yes, by all means; what a way to end an 
evening! 

(Fritz goes to the piano and Roger stands beside him 
while the music softly starts the adagio movement.) 

Roger: 

Adagio Sostenuto 

The vision of Endymion’s Mount in the plain of Caria rises. 
Fair Latmus, guarded by Selene, riding in her silver chariot 
across the sky, 


[ 80 ] 


As sleeps the white narcissus, with the purple hyacinth and 
the soft red rose— 

All bathed in the light of her torch. My eyes close in your 
melody and I, too, dream. 

Allegretto 

The rising tide of life as the consciousness of a great beauty, 
breaks. 

The soul of the world, bared to the pale, fair rays of the 
daughter of Zeus, 

Trembles in an ecstasy. The serenity of a vaster silence becomes 
eloquent, 

As in the solitude of the higher slopes, Endymion sleeps. 
Presto Agitato 

But not again to wake. Touched by the tremulous lips of the 
silver goddess 

He smiles, and with his smile has come life’s tragic redemption. 
In his everlasting sleep, forever guarded by a Vestal’s jealous 
care, 

He is still young, and his wonderful beauty fades not, nor 
changes. 

Richard: —O, the lost words to bring to utterance our 
acknowledgment of such beauty! ’Tis said the scholars of the 
world have only about eight hundred words in their vocabu¬ 
laries with which to express themselves. What poverty, when 
one feels the thrill of desire to pour out his feelings, and finds— 
only emptiness. ’Tis like the babbling child whose mind is 
opening to the glories of an unknown world. Can one under¬ 
stand why one is so destitute of words to convey sensations? 
Wonderful words there are, everywhere, whose music would 
fill the air if they could be freed from their cages of confine¬ 
ment. We little know the mysteries of language. We carry 
our few words about us, satisfied to let them limit our 
expression, repress our imagination, stagnate our thought, make 
our rhymes commonplace. When we find a new word we 
treat it as an intruder that begs to attach itself to our per¬ 
sonality, and make: us different from our neighbor,—and we 
will not permit it. I am curious now, Roger, to know what 


[ 81 ] 


you have to say about the new music—certainly the contrast 
must have been great. 

(Fritz leaves piano and returns to his seat.) 

Roger: —Well, I confess I tried to get its meaning. I 
suppose the composer must have had some pictures in his mind 
as he went along. Please do not think I am disrespectful to 
the new and novel. I know we must progress; I am just 
giving you the impression which came to me, and if this one 
that I am about to read lacks dignity, it is not because I have 
any personal animosities, or wish to detract from the merits 
of the music. It is just an honest impression, and must be 
taken as such. (Reads) Impression of Sowerby’s Symphony 
No. i, given for the first time by the Chicago Symphony 
Orchestra: 

A CONVENTION OF ALLEY KATS 
(Fast, with Restless Energy) 

Mr. Tom 

Was chasing his lady friend 

About the backyard of the hotel 

When the sun suddenly collapsed 

And fell behind the overheated mountains. 

A multitude of pale moons 

Arose and began to babble their little troubles 

To a great Universe 

Which tried to preserve its serenity 

In the calmness of the night. 

Tears trickled down the faces of these little moons 

As the wails of the alley kats 

Arose in the pink atmosphere of the barnyard. 

(With Quiet Languor) 

The first violins purred 

As if to appease the restless Tom, 

But the glittering saffron of a thousand female eyes 
Only spurred him on. 

His mind swelled and swelled until the orbits of his eyes 
Sunk into the palpitating flesh around them 
And he fell into a morass 
Of deep languor. 


[ 82 ] 


It must have been the midnight orgies 
Of an overfed stomach, 

For the restless clash of the cubist harmonies 
Made a nightmare 

That paled to insignificance the song of the kats. 

(With Triumphant Sweep—Fairly Fast) 

Mr. Tom 

Finally awoke from his purple dream. 

The gray dawn of a better life 

Was slyly creeping, with the female kats, 

Down the alley like a slinking shadow. 

Each note was sobbing 
The triumph of the dawn— 

With a sudden crash the sun awakened 
And dried the tears of night. 

In a low sweet murmur of the violins 

The majesty of day 

Cast its blushing radiance on a world 

It had loved and lost, and now loved again, 

While Mr. Tom 

Shed a parting tear as the baton fell on the field of carnage. 

Fritz: —O, Roger, and you never told me about this? 
I wonder what dignified Frederick Stock would say if he could 
read it? 

Roger: —Well, he would probably shrug his shoulders, 
and remark that the task of a program maker is not an easy 
one—breadth of vision is an attainment in which beauty and 
ugliness must necessarily be counterparts. Discrimination, 
therefore, becomes a finer art than ever for one with such a 
wide selection. 

Richard: —This all urges on one the growing value of 
the one per cent as a saving factor to civilization. A well-known 
critic in New York has recently stated that in his opinion 
European conditions would soon become chaotic as a result 
of the recent war, incentive to art work would cease, and the 
United States would witness an influx of painters, sculptors, 
musicians and literary people in general, and wondered if New 
York would become the great metropolis of the world for the 
development of the higher tendencies. One questions whether 


[ 83 ] 


our commercial atmosphere would assimilate, or be assimilated. 

Jerome: —I can’t imagine such an immigration. We 
haven’t the atmosphere that age plays in art. The inheritances 
of Greece and Rome, to say nothing of the Renaissance periods 
in Italy, France, Germany, Holland, Spain and England, would 
preclude such a possibility. One must feel the intimate asso¬ 
ciation of the immortals, and here we have decadence and 
reversion of the worst type. Money to buy is our one asset— 
creative power is nil. 

Richard:— Yet, it is my judgment on the other hand, the 
next great movement of the world will come out of Europe. 
It may be a fact that it will be built on the ruins of what we 
have supposed was a modern civilization, and which has proven 
itself to be merely an economic structure in which kings, priests 
and nobility have delegated to themselves everything of value 
in life and have offered the comforts of heaven to the great 
masses whose lives have been a monumental stupidity. 

Roger: —Yes, I think the French Revolution was really 
the one spark of promise on the horizon of Europe, and that 
was easily extinguished, for it was born of the sorrow and 
oppression of one little spot only. 

Fritz: —Why is it there is such a halo about dead revo¬ 
lutions? That of America was glorious—because it succeeded. 
Germany turns its gaze to 1848, and England very much 
farther back, while Italy has no greater heroes. A revolution 
nowadays is a really sinister thing, instigated by men of ill 
repute, whose object seems to be to destroy both government 
and church. 

Richard:— I think this brings us face to face with the 
crisis that the world will be now called upon to face, and that 
crisis will convert the one per cent into the real intelligentsia for 
the conduct of the world’s affairs. 

Roger: —I have been dreaming about an Order of Hya- 
cinthus. I must dream, you know, and when I read those old 
Greek legends they turn my mind and all my desires back 
again to get out of this turmoil of modern life and strife. 
Hyacinthus was youth and beauty, and he was the beloved 
of Apollo, and in death he became by the grace of Zeus, a 
beautiful flower in which his exuberant flow of life combined 
with an intoxicating fragrance, betokened the advent of spring. 


[ 34 ] 


I think Art, expressing the beauty of life should keep our 
minds in the atmosphere of an eternal spring. 

Richard: —My studies and reflections on the present re¬ 
naissance in the East lead me to believe that the revival of all 
you hope for, Roger, is on its way—there are signs now present 
of a growing dawn. Oscar Wilde has said in his “Critic as 
Artist”:—“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by 
moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before 
the rest of the world.” No greater promise of the growing dawn 
can be found than that evinced by the Russian Revolution. 
After a struggle of centuries the Russian one per cent has finally 
accomplished that for which so much suffering has paid. Prob¬ 
ably Tolstoi did more to stimulate the minds of these people 
than any one else. At least, by his voluminous writings he 
encouraged the previous generation to hope for the new freedom, 
and now one hundred and forty millions of people in that one 
country alone are ready to lay the foundations for the develop¬ 
ment of a practical Christianity. Through much suffering and 
travail must these new freedoms come, but the rights of equality 
before the law can be secured in no other way. 

Roger: —Ah, yes, out of the East I hear those voices 
coming to me as they did to Jeanne d’Arc. The riders of wild 
horses are filling the air with barbaric strains; I can see them 
in the night, gathering force from everywhere. The old songs of 
Babylon and Naishapur shall sing once again. The hoarse cries 
of the tribes of the desert urge the legions on. From Persia, 
I ram’s roses will bloom again—souls sent through the invisible 
re-appear—all the martyrs of the thousand years turn their 
faces toward the growing dawn which calls them back. The 
Book of Revelation opens itself to me to say again: “And I 
saw a new heaven, and a new earth for the first heaven and 
the first earth had passed away.” “And unto the church of the 
Laodiceans write: Because thou sayest I am rich and increased 
with goods, and have need of nothing; and knowest not that 
thou art wretched and miserable, and poor and blind and 
naked, I counsel thee to buy of me gold tried in the fire, that 
thou mayest buy rich and white raiment that thou mayest be 
clothed, that the shame of thy nakedness do not appear; and 
anoint thine eyes with eye salve that thou mayest see.” (Rising 
and going to the window.) 


[ 85 ] 


Richard (Noticing, too , the light): —See, the light of 
the new day begins to break in the East—it is the growing dawn. 
Let us, before we part, drink from the samovar to the glory 
of the East, for from it has always come the Resurrection. 

(All stand and drink a silent toast , as the curtain falls,) 


[ 86 ] 












































































0 





I 






















THE SPIRIT OF THE LOWER 
NORTH SIDE 


[ 89 ] 




































.. 





























V 
















■ 

















































Author’s Preface 


No one who has not gone through and experienced the 
real life of the past five years can thoroughly appreciate the 
dialogues of this play . . Most of them represent realities, some 
of them are fancies of what might have been realities with the 
right combinations of men and women to make them so. All 
of the characters lead intense lives without insincerities or 
hypocrisies. Those of the characters who may by chance read 
the dialogues will guess that the writer has tried to do them 
justice in these regards. There is no attempt to travesty or 
ridicule—the views they present are from their hearts— 
the lesson if there be one, to be learned, is that most sincere 
persons reach their conclusions from different angles and are 
apt to arrive at seemingly opposing destinations after an honest 
effort to get there. What truth is no one knows—therein lies 
the value of life—the impossibility of reaching any definite 
conclusions—if we could so arrive the impulses to attainment 
would be gone and we should stagnate. We should never strive 
for perfection or a heaven in any guise, for if we think we have 
attained it we become like one who has attained death—the 
goal of life, and the process of decay at once sets in—“Give 
me the storm of tempest in thought and action rather than the 
dead calm of ignorance and faith, banish me from Eden when 
you will but first let me eat of the fruits of the tree of knowl¬ 
edge,” are the virile words of a soul of greatness who has 
fought the fight of a vigorous life. 

Time will justify the acts of the few who dared to fight 
the battle for the constitution and the rights guaranteed by it 
to the American people. In fewer years than we suppose the 
wrong and injustice of America’s part in the greatest of all 
wars will be as transparent as the light that brings its joy and 
gladness to us every morning of our lives. The real America 
will assert itself and when represented in the life of the mind 
and heart will go on to purify a disordered and misgoverned 
world. 

December , 1922. 


[ 91 ] 








* I 








THE SPIRIT OF THE LOWER NORTH SIDE 
A play in three scenes 


Characters 


Jack Jones.. 

Mary McFadden___ 

SlRFESSER WlLKESBARRE. 

Stanley Szukalski. 

Jim Larkin__ 


Dorothy Walton.. 

C. Gaspard Florine... 

Maude Tollefson_ 

Mary O’Reilly.... 


.Painter and Decorator 

. Poet and Writer 

_ Word Manufacturer 

. Anatomy Specialist 

. Deportee 

___ Cub Reporter 

...Poetic Business Man 


. Musician and Dance-Artist 

_ ___ Theory Teacher 

Rev. John Bunyan . Sky Pilot 

Rev. Irwin St. John Tucker . Christian Socialist 

Laura Hughes ___ 1 Pacifist 

Lillian Hiller Udell ..l Members of the 

Harriet Park Thomas . \ Peoples Council 

Time 

July , iQifj in Chicago 


[ 93 ] 





























Scene I 


Mary McFadderis studio in the Arlington Hotel. 

(A plainly furnished hotel room devoid of luxuries—just 
a place to exist in. Mary McFadden and Jack Jones present. 
Mary trying to make a write-up for a newspaper.) 

Mary: —The devil must be in me today, I can’t get a 
thought straight. When I had that dream last night I kept 
saying to myself—won’t it make a story for you—and now it 
is gone and I must get something done for tonight or the editor 
will can me. 

Jack: —Well, that is what you get for depending on dreams 
—where is your imagination? You are always telling me 
about the passing processions in your mind—where are they? 

Mary: —Now don’t make fun of me, Jack—you might 
know from what I have already done that my imagination 
serves me well—but don’t you sometimes get to an impossible 
place and stare at nothing but blank walls ? 

Jack: —Yes—and when I do—I take a pot of tea and 
then go for a walk up to the park. That cures it all. Come 
on, Mary—let’s do that very thing. I’ve been working on a 
play now, all the afternoon and would like to relax. 

Mary: —Wait a bit, Jack—the Sirfesser promised to come 
up and look in—perhaps he will want to relax also—and we 
will all go together. Maybe he has strained his mind today 
on vocabularies and needs a change. I like his originality—he 
certainly stirs up one’s blood with his Nietzscheisms. I heard 
him say he had coined about seven hundred new words—I 
don’t know who will use any of them. I think the vocabularies 
of most people are shrinking nowadays. 

Jack: —Yes, I guess so,—hello, there he is now—I hear 
his step in the hallway. (Knock at the door , Mary opens , Sir¬ 
fesser enters.) 

Sirfesser: —Well, here we are, the order of the Eagle 
and the Serpent, by the grace of its authorized ambassador, 
ushers in its august presence. Jack—a cigarette, Mary, a pot 
o’tea. Let’s sit down and commune together in the quiet of 


[ 94 ] 


the early evening and consider life and its many petty annoy¬ 
ances. I am just from the Chicago Avenue Station, having 
had a pleasant and particular interview with the Captain con¬ 
cerning the little disturbance we had last night over at the 
square. The damned police don’t seem to understand soul 
deliverers and world savers. I could talk myself blind Mary, 
to one of your countrymen on the force and he wouldn’t com¬ 
prehend a word I said. All he knows is to tell me to get off 
the box and come along—arrested for interfering with the 
traffic and blocking the sidewalk—and all the while the Sal¬ 
vation Army, with its noisy nonsense going right along blocking 
everything just the same and nothing said. It’s high time 
something was done when these Irish can do what they please 
with us English when we are away from home—hey, Jack? 
What do you think of Mary and her crowd running this free 
country and giving us the blah? 

Mary: —I should like to see the U. S. go through a day 
without the Irish. It’s stamina they need in this country and 
its up to the Irish to furnish it. 

Sirfesser: —Well, by the great Queen Elizabeth! I like 
to hear the likes o’ you talking to his Majesty’s derelicts in 
that fashion in a strange country. I’ll report you to McDon¬ 
ough and Egan unless you keep a more civil tongue in your 
head. They are snooping around looking for talk that will 
give them a chance to get some big stuff for the newspapers. 
They have saved the city many a time since last April from 
the bombs of the wicked I. W. W.’s over on the west side as 
well as stopping the mouths of the People’s Council and other 
German propagandists who are trying their best to break up 
the British Empire—but they can’t hush the voice of a high 
priced organism like me. I’ll say what I like—the worst they 
can do is to ship me back to old England and I won’t pay the 
freight either. I’m getting rather homesick anyway for a 
sight of the old place. 

Mary: —Yes, and when you’re over get Lloyd George 
to palaver the Irish into the army to help save the world for 
democracy. ( Voices heard and steps coming down hall—knock 
at door—Mary opens—enter Stanley Szukalski, Jim Larkin, 
Maude Tollefson and C. Gaspard Florine.) 

Jack: —Well, well, this is a fine bunch, breaking in on 
our peaceful meditations. The Sirfesser was just leading us 


[ 95 ] 


in prayer for the salvation of Mary’s soul and here you come 
and break the spell—she may be forever damned now on your 
account. 

Jim Larkin (Always with a pipe in his mouth) : Tut, tut, 
man—can’t friends call to brace one another up in these troub¬ 
lous days ? Things may be all right at the Dill Pickle, but not 
with everybody. 

Florine: —No. Jack—we told Mary we would come 
around some hot night and have a little of the amber fluid 
and some small talk and poetry—so here we are and mighty 
glad to find you in such good company as the Sirfesser—he could 
resurrect the dead with his line of galvanic talk about organ¬ 
isms. Stanley and I stayed all through at the last meeting of 
the vagabonds to get his arguments—and we are still guessing. 

Maude :—Well—you know mysticism is the art that 
claims the multitudes—it is not the simple thing my music is— 
that appeals to the sympathetic ear and is easily understood 
and enjoyed—but when the Sirfesser begins to expound we need 
the courage of the Eagle and the wisdom of the Serpent to 
help our digestion—but you mean all right, don’t you, Mr. 
Sirfesser? 

Sirfesser: —Yes—my dear, I am especially subdued now 
anyway, since I have learned what a fine dancer you are—I 
am almost tempted to let some of my intellect run to my feet. 
Do you think I could ever acquire the graceful art? 

Maude: —Lots worse than you. If you knew the prob¬ 
lem I have to face over in Tooker Place you would feel that 
you already held a receipt for half a term’s tuition buttoned up 
in your pocket. 

Mary: —Well now, all you literary and intellectual peo¬ 
ple, please come to order. We are going to enjoy a few home 
productions. If it gets too hot we will adjourn to the roof— 
there’s a place to stimulate your imagination,—up under the 
stars—with all the city’s lights ablaze and away off in the East 
a great moon rising out of Lake Michigan. Could you look 
at all this beauty with a few cold bottles in your midst and 
not feel the ecstasies creeping up your spinal columns? I 
couldn’t. Jim—you start it—I heard you had learned a new 
song that will satisfy every loyal or otherwise son or daughter 
of the Empire. A little of your manly voice will start us all 
agoing. 


[ 96 ] 


Jim:— Well, I must have a little taste of the popular 
amber fluid ailed tea. My song is not long—it’s one I heard 
at the theater in Dublin when I was a lad. My throat gets 
husky when I sing about the old sod. (Takes the drink which 
Mary hands him in a cup.) (Sings): 

“John Bull lives in England, 

Teddy lives in Wales, 

Sandy lives in Scotland 
And weathers all the gales, 

Poor Paddy lives in Ireland 
Home Rule would set him free 
God bless our dear old Ireland 
And the Shamrock Tree.” 

(Bowing amidst great applause and bravos.) 

Mary:— Well done, Jim, I could give you a kiss for that. 

Jim : — Never mind, Mary, I have a wife and children at 
home waiting for me. 

Mary : — All right, old man, go on with your smoking 
this time—now let the poet laureate fill us with his presence. 
I know what a pacifist he is—I suppose he has been pouring 
out his soul in bitterness the past few weeks since Wilson re¬ 
moved his mask. How about that effusion you showed me 
a few days ago Florine, about “My Country”—I thought it 
rather eloquent—let’s hear it. 

Florine:— All right—it is a piece of my soul, I will be 
reading to you. (Reading from manuscript.) 

Written July 4th, 1917. 

LAMENTATION ODE 

Liberty proudly sitting at our gate, 

Freedom unleashed, glad, joyous, elate; 

This race, that race, in willing adventure, 

My Nation, your Nation, upbuilding together 
In life, work and love, partners forever,— 

Ties binding for a new race. 

The voice of the past in hope interceding, 

The speech of the new race evermore pleading 
For a freedom of larger vision. 

Humanity sitting at America’s gate— 


[ 97 ] 


Are we building a narrower wall of hate? 

My Country, O My Country! 

The call of sacrifice to the young, 

The willing answer, joyously, carelessly flung 
Like a purse on the gamblers’ table. 

The tumult of ancestry born to fight 
To answer a taunt by the dare of a might, 

Is that young America’s service? 

O young manhood, crossing the romance sea 
Must you too the sacrifice or the conqueror be 
To satisfy democracy’s craving? 

If so, the trembling flutter of stars in your flag 
In mire and in mud of ignominy will drag, 

My Country, O My Country! 

Does there not come from Russia’s vast plain 
The sound of a hope that long dormant has lain 
In tired humanity’s breast? 

Why should the hand of one man be stayed 
If his voice against war would another persuade 
In the name of a common weal? 

The freedom of man—in name but a dream,— 

Would that America arise as one voice supreme 
To proclaim true democracy’s call, 

To tell all the world in accents that ring 

“We’ll fight with minds only, all freedom to bring 

My Country, O My Country.” 

Sirfesser: —That is very clever Florine, well put and 
with lofty ideas—right hot from the brain pan as I have oc¬ 
casion to remark when anything especially pleases me. I think 
you are entitled to become one of the order of Superites of 
which I am the grand vizier. You can expose your ego as 
often as you like when you become one of us. 

Mary: —Well, Sirfesser, you might go on now as long as 
you have got your organization oiled up and in working order,— 
we will not try to stop you for a while—it would be useless 
anyhow to do so, but generally when you get on your feet and 
“become intoxicated by the exuberance of your verbosity” as 
your friend Disraeli used to remark about Gladstone, you have 


[ 98 ] 


something to say before you get through that arouses a combat— 
so go to it and let us know the latest while it is hot. 

Sirfesser: —Fill your mouth with silence, Mary, and 
give a man a chance. I have a great deal unsaid from yes¬ 
terday that explodes within me and I must relieve myself and 
this is the opportunity—a little of the liquid, please. By the 
way—Sahara is the name of the present condition of my in¬ 
terior finish—it must be lubricated to produce the syllables 
readily. (Drinks beer from bottle handed him by Mary.) I 
divide mankind into three classes, simpoleons, hopoleons and 
Napoleons—in you before me I see those of the first class, in 
me you see a fine type of the latter class. I claim no rights 
that do not belong to me, I merit them all. In me you find 
at once the highest expression of God in man and his accom¬ 
plished wisdom to date, as delegated to a Titan of the twentieth 
century. Before me have gone a Caesar and a Napoleon,—each 
with his message to a wondering and respectful world and now 
to me has been handed the scepter of divinity which was ex¬ 
pressed through them. I am Alpha and Omega in wisdom, and 
my philosophy transcends the twentieth century. Come unto 
me all ye that thirst and I will give you drink. I claim all 
this by the possession of an individuality that will brook no 
denial of my claims and stand before you a self-made superite 
who can intelligently direct inferior organisms in the paths of 
righteousness, and I see such before me now who have written 
on their faces the story of the fall of man in his intellectual 
department—all save you, Jim Larkin, I will make an exception 
in your case for it would be folly on my part to deny that you 
have been a useful factor in the development of society. I can¬ 
not say anything for the rest of you—who seem like a bunch 
of fallen angels, lying with their faces to the ground and 
without the stamina to make a rise. Take you, for instance, 
Stanley Szukalski, you claim to know the last word about your 
anatomy, but what about the gray matter in your skull—how 
do you account for its shortage? I talked you to the wall at 
the last meeting of the Vagabonds and all you could do was 
to make a few circles in chalk on the black board and answer in 
riddles that no one could understand. I talk sense and sim¬ 
plicity, anyone who does not know what I mean when I get 
through is a moron and existence has no plan for him—cut him 
out—give way to the strong and let them produce, through 


[ 99 ] 


selection, the superman. I advise you to get under the protect¬ 
ing wing of some rich dame who will bring you out and make 
you respectable—you can have fat chops and a good liver under 
your head of hair if you use a little diplomacy. Expose your 
ego to someone who will fall for it and you will be surprised 
to see how easy the transformation is and then you will remem¬ 
ber all of these things that I am telling you and thank me for 
the impulse. 

Mary: —Why pick so hard on Stanley?—he must have 
stuck a pin into you somewhere and so hard that you have lost 
your equilibrium. Remember how Poland has suffered and 
be considerate. 

Sirfesser:— It would not be Nietzschean for me to con¬ 
sider the sufferings of any nation. The suffering is the sign 
of weakness. Remember the words of the Great Master—“All 
that proceeds from power is good. All that springs from weak¬ 
ness is bad—and I am interested only in the relations of a people 
to the rearing of the individual men. Among the Greeks the 
conditions were unusually favorable for the development of the 
individual, not by any means owing to the goodness of the 
people but because of the struggles of their evil instincts.” Now 
as I stand here tonight and say these things to you, behold a 
shadow crosses the moon. ’Tis the Eagle sweeping through the 
air and around its neck the serpent coiled in friendship—the 
proudest and the wisest. They have come to call me back to 
my summit, for yea verily ’tis the animals that lead man to 
the visions of the heights. Now Mary, I have said enough, 
I want to hear one of those sweet little Irish lyrics of which 
you are so capable a mistress. 

Mary (Grateful for the Sirfesser s appreciation): Thank 
you Sirfesser, I don’t deserve all you imply. I will read you 
a short one as we must adjourn to the roof to get away from 
this terrible heat. (Reading from manuscript): 

THE IRISH MOON 

In the high sky—over the Irish Sea 

Where I weep in silence, you come to me, 

As I sit in grief of my country’s woes. 

Deep down are the sunken wells of sorrows 

That bow my head; I feel the galling rod— 


[ 100 ] 


The despair of dreams that have failed of God. 

When I press my face toward you, response 
Is quick—I sense your silver smile, beauteous 
To my heart transfixed at the cold gray shore, 

As if no moon could charm again the lore 
That bloomed so full on other Edenside 
And beyond the blarney of ocean’s tide. 

Here now I rest—the softness of your light 
Translates the deeper shadows of the night 
Until my mind is free,—I feel the slip 
Of a slowly changing world in the dip 
Of melting hours when the Baal fires glow 
On the mountains where the sacred oaks grow. 

Sidhe forms glide in the wild orange flames 
In play of their summer middle night games. 

O, Ireland, song of my heart, let me be 
To thee a lover; careless, joyous, free; 

I pledge the moon, soft shining o’er the sea, 

As hostage for the fairy world and me. 

Great night, where quiet music stirs its breast, 

In the moan of the trees by wind’s lips pressed, 
Curtain o’er my land, as if changeful scene 
Can bring to morning’s light a yester’s dream. 

A dream of Ireland, free to make its place 
In a world unbought by a slave’s disgrace, 

Freely to live its moods of head and heart 
Where romance disports in a friendship’s mart. 

Now the long centuries close in the light 
Of a moon that has guarded Ireland’s night 
Even tho’ shrouded in paleness’ gloom 
The days are prophetic of its master’s doom. 

(Amidst applause and general hand clapping steps are 
heard in hallway—knock at door—Maude opens. Enter Mary 
O'Reilly , Dorothy Walton and Rev. John Bunyan.) 

Mary McF :—Well this is indeed a surprise—how did 
you happen to come up here? 

Mary O’R:—It must be a guidance of Divine Providence 
I think—anyway Dorothy and I were walking away from the 


[ 101 ] 


square where Tucker was speaking when we met Mr. Bunyan, 
pardon me Mary and all of you, I don’t think you have met 
Mr. Bunyan. (Introduces him all around—they look at him 
with considerable curiosity and at each other with anticipation 
of a pleasant evening on the roof.) I met Mr. Bunyan last 
summer on Pike’s Peak during vacation time. Several parties 
had gone up the night before to enjoy the sunrise in the early 
morning and Mr. Bunyan and I were amongst those who 
spent the night on the top of the mountain. We shall never 
forget the wondrous beauty of the early morning when the 
eastern sun burst forth from the plains of the lowlands and 
cast its gleams over the hundreds of miles of landscape that 
are visible to the eye from this mountain top. Such an experi¬ 
ence cements friendships that last a lifetime and whenever 
Mr. Bunyan and I meet we have at least this in common, 
although we find plenty of other things to disagree about. I 
think Mr. Bunyan was drawn out of curiosity to listen to 
Mr. Tucker, preaching Socialism in the Square, to give him 
another viewpoint of life although I feel sure the pastor of the 
Salvation Church would not find much that was congenial in 
innovations of this kind. 

Rev. Bunyan : — Tut, tut, Miss O’Reilly—you know I 
am a college bred athlete, trained for the pugilistic arena and 
interested in mental acrobatics as well as physical. I am not 
afraid to listen to the truth whoever utters it, honestly as he 
sees it, not that I may at all agree with him but I like to think 
that in all the world there is a place for a great tolerance and 
we may learn one from the other. Of course of one thing I 
am convinced and must necessarily be, that God’s truth as 
revealed by Him in His Gospels is the only truth and all other 
expressions must conform to it. It is my mission in life to 
stand unalterably on the platform of the Divine revelation and 
teach others to see the light as I do. However, I did not come 
here to preach—these young ladies asked me to meet some of 
their friends which I was glad to do, but I will not try to 
impose my religious views upon a social function. 

Mary McF : — We should be glad to have you spend the 
remainder of the evening with us if you can. We have a 
splendid place on the roof—where we go hot nights, to sit 
and talk under the stars. It is a great inspiration to profes¬ 
sional people, as most of us are, to go for a while “above the 


[ 102 ] 


battle” as it were and be by ourselves in an hour of quiet talk 
after the struggle of the day. 

John Bunyan :—I certainly should be glad to join you. 
These days are strenuous ones for me too and I like the com¬ 
panionships of sincerity, as I know you all honestly differ 
from me and perhaps from each other. 

Mary McF :—Well let’s start—you go ahead Jack and 
see if the way is open. 

(They all leave by twos—Jim Larkin and John Bunyan 
together in earnest conversation.) 

Curtain 

Scene II 

(On the roof of the Arlington Hotel—a five story structure 
surrounded by lower buildings. The view of the electrically 
lighted city is imposing. The sky is clear and filled with the 
countless stars of a very hot night. Over in the East a nearly 
full moon is riding silently along in the silver refulgence of its 
beauty. Chairs are placed for those who choose—others throw 
themselves full length or sit upon the graveled roof.) 

Maude: —I have a limerick for you Jack, if you will 
give one back—even trades you know. 

Jack: —Yes I have one but it is on the Sirfesser—I would 
not be so ungallant as to limerick you, Maude. 

Several: —Good, let’s have them. 

Mary McF :—We will limit the number to these two— 
and see who gets knocked the hardest. Maude, what is yours? 

Maude :— 

There was a man named Jack Jones 
Whose mind was mostly of bones; 

His soul was of leather, 

But his conduct so clever, 

That everyone liked Mr. Jack Jones. 

Jack: —Ha, ha, Maude—I will remember you in my will 
for that. Now listen to mine. I will make the Sirfesser wink. 
There was a man called the Sirfesser 
Who talked for hours at his pleasure; 

The thoughts in his head 
To his poor friends he fed 
With words that flowed on forever. 


[ 103 ] 


Sirfesser: —Now it has come to pass again that a prophet 
is without honor in his own country. I have done the best I 
could to impress you with the value of individuality but to no 
effect. I am afraid this is the evident result of all democracy— 
the disillusioning of the individual that he can become a leader. 
No leaders are wanted—we must all be on a common level— 
there is no room for the advancement of distinct ideas. 

Rev. Bunyan: —Don’t you think, Sirfesser, that this be¬ 
lief in the supremacy of individuality is at the bottom of the 
intense militarism of Germany and not remotely the cause of 
this world disturbance in which we are now all greatly con¬ 
cerned? Germany has been taught the spirit of individualism 
now for two or three generations until it honestly believes it 
has a divine sanction to impress itself upon the rest of the world. 
I am sure there is a strict line of demarcation between these 
ideas and those of the people of countries calling themselves 
democracies in one form or another. 

Sirfesser:—I am not disputing the fact of the power of 
individuality. We must all agree on that—I need not disagree 
with you in what you say about what it can accomplish if it is 
asserted politically, as it is when used as an instrument of 
suppression or oppression, whereby this great will of a minority 
is imposed on the multitude for nationalistic purposes. I preach 
the greater message of individuality in the development of 
democracy. Herein lies my opposition to the socialistic dream 
of so many and includes Christianity as well. This to my 
mind is only an earlier and less well developed scheme of 
socialism which the scholarship of later years has added to and 
enlarged upon—of course eliminating the miraculous and im¬ 
possible from it as belonging to an age of credulity. 

Rev. Bunyan : — Just there of course we should greatly 
differ—I represent a group of people, and am one myself, who 
sincerely believe that Christianity and Judaism are and were 
always realities—sustained by God Himself and not figures of 
speech or principles of ethical conduct. My democracy would 
be based on Christ’s teachings, and His individuality would be 
the only one conceived, as God possessing all Knowledge, can¬ 
not be added to or made greater by anything external, which 
of course your individualist proceeds to try to do in order, as 
he says, to increase Knowledge or produce a development of 
what he calls evolutionary law. This is all contrary to the 


[ 104 ] 


spirit of God and Christ—who say They are Alpha and Omega, 
benefactors to humanity of all it may ever stand in need of. 
I think this is a firm rock upon which all that will, may stand 
until Christ comes again to repossess His Kingdom. Individu¬ 
ality, in most of its phases, is a promulgation of the devil who 
is always on the alert to poison the minds of the unsuspecting. 
Christ is all in all to those who will accept Him at His word. 

Dorothy:— Pardon me, Mr. Bunyan, I am a little curious 
of some things about which you can probably enlighten me. 
At the request of the New Majority, a paper for which I write 
special articles, I was present at one of your Sunday morning 
meetings not long ago to hear your sermon on “Prominent 
Aspects of the Christian’s Character,” and “How to Distinguish 
the Christian from Others of the World.” I remember that 
you spoke very forcibly of the necessity for a Christian to 
differentiate from the world in which he finds himself and by 
constant prayer to feel the proximity of Christ to guard one 
from the temptations of man and the devil, so that when the 
call of Christ came, as it might at any moment, one would find 
oneself prepared to meet his God. All about in the auditorium 
were signs, “God is Love” and profusely draped upon the plat¬ 
form and pulpit, American flags signifying devotion to the 
country and the war in which it is engaged. Missionary mot¬ 
toes were much in evidence in which inferences of human 
brotherhood were emphasized and the general impression made 
upon me, as a stranger, was that here met a group of people, 
keen to sympathize with and uplift all the unfortunates of 
whatever tribe or nation—and yet there were those flags twining 
themselves everywhere and speaking their message to me louder 
than any word uttered or printed. I lost the sound of your 
voice for a few minutes, Mr. Bunyan, as my mind wandered 
across the sea and I thought I was seated in a similar audi¬ 
torium of Christian people in a great city like Berlin. The same 
voices, the same mottoes, the same twining of flags, and I saw 
around me young men clothed in the uniform of their country 
as I did here in Chicago. Then I saw them arise and bow 
their heads at the benediction in which the fervent prayer of 
the pastor arose to the same God of Love that he would grant 
success to the armies and bring despair to the enemy—and I 
saw the young men go out and away to join their regiments 
and march on to the field where they would meet in deadly com- 


[ 105 ] 


bat of life or death the young men from Salvation Church and 
claim their lives with a bayonet thrust or perhaps be killed 
themselves with a bullet from the others’ rifles. I clasped 
my hands and said in despair, is there God love that will permit 
and condone such things and urge you on with what you call 
your holy work of preaching Christ and Him crucified and 
that He died upon the Cross to save the world. I said to 
myself, is there a greater hypocrisy than this that the Christian 
Church will so forget itself and its great mission of Peace as 
to be an ally with the greatest agent of the evil one in the 
world today—war—and so prostitute its tremendous influence 
to the powers of darkness that rule in high places. Then I 
thought of your subject, “How to Distinguish the Christian 
from the Rest of the World,” and looking about me saw the 
expressions of complacency on all the faces of your hearers—the 
self satisfaction that seemed to possess their souls in quietude— 
and said to myself—my God, can these people feel themselves 
different from the rest when they are failing in the first prin¬ 
ciples of Human Brotherhood and have in their hearts the 
desire to kill and maim the very young men who are saying 
their prayers in another temple of God beyond the sea? I 
left the service feeling that whatever hold Christianity once 
possessed it had become now a sepulcher of dead men’s bones 
that rattled in the winds of an unsympathetic world. 

Rev. Bunyan : —I think, Miss Walton, you are unduly 
sensitive on certain subjects. I am sure the great majority of our 
countrymen feel no such compunctions—least of all the members 
of the church—we believe in militancy—“Onward Christian 
Soldiers” is our cry and the Salvation Army in uniform and 
with military titles is one of our great influences, respected 
wherever found now that the war has given them an entree 
amongst all kinds of people. But to answer you I must go 
deep into the past—yes to the very beginning and show you 
that Christ came not to bring peace but a sword and that 
throughout the centuries, particularly at the time of the cru¬ 
sades the advantage gained over the heathen and the irreligious 
has been by the sword and force of arms. Even the great curse 
of slavery was removed from our country by a long and bloody 
conflict in which thousands of our own kind were destroyed 
that God’s will might be fulfilled. Could one indeed have the 
blessings of this great Christian country in which we live in 


[ 106 ] 


freedom, unfettered by allegiance to another, had it not been 
after a long and disastrous conflict with the mother country 
which thought by oppression to force us to continue as a con¬ 
tributing subject to her greatness. Do we not sing “My Coun¬ 
try ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing,” etc., with 
thankful pride that someone died that we might inherit the 
blessings for which he sacrificed himself? The church only 
advocates those wars that have a high purpose back of them 
and if any war was a holy one, this which we are now in is that. 
The call of the whole civilized world for democracy, the privi¬ 
lege of life under the rule of the people themselves, free from 
the oppression of a medieval monarchism which would grind the 
masses to the will of one man or a coterie of men, who wish to 
force submission to the whims and caprices of an arrogant 
militarism. No, the church could never be a party to that— 
rather a few sacrifices of the kind you mention, than the strang¬ 
ling of all that the world has struggled for and attained through 
these long centuries since Christ came with the blessed light of 
the Gospel and showed the way of salvation. I rejoice that we 
are winning the war and look upon these disagreements 
amongst nations as fulfilled prophecies of the word of God, 
that in the last days troublous times shall come, in which 
nation shall war against nation, etc., as foretelling the coming 
of Christ once again to claim His own and on that morning 
of resurrection to hear Him say: “Come unto me all ye righteous 
into eternal life and unto those who have not found or accepted 
him: Depart into everlasting darkness.” O for that glorious 
day—I beseech God in my daily prayer that we may be found 
ready and waiting. Wars and differences between peoples are 
trivial things in the great march of events, when eternity is 
in the preparation and everyone must decide his fate for him¬ 
self. This is the Gospel I offer you as I offer it to all—forget 
that the war has cast a cloud on the horizon—it is only a little 
circumstance in a transitory world; easily caused and easily 
forgotten—but eternity—forever—that is the important thing— 
do not overlook it. Think of the broken body and the shed 
blood of Christ, a great tragedy in which He became the sac¬ 
rifice for all to show a way of redemption and salvation through 
the vicarious offering of Himself, that we might have a path 
of escape provided and so inherit, each one of us that Eternity 


[ 107 ] 


of life in the mansions He has provided above for the least as 
well as the greatest. 

Jim Larkin:—I cannot reconcile religion with Rev. Bun- 
yan’s viewpoint. It sounds old fashioned to me. The stimulus 
of new conditions which industrialism has created must modify 
religious conceptions or religion will be relegated to a place in 
the past. Wars have lost the haloes of the days when principles 
of freedom and a holy cause were the rallying motives, and 
too, the appeal of another world, and its happiness, does not 
convince as it did once. We are now in an era when people 
ask for one world at a time and that world to be one where 
justice can be the portion of each alike. The old doctrines o r 
humility and meekness, when the overlord could assert his 
power through the strength of possession and riches, were 
doctrines of false morality. Such lives of oppression could not 
be compensated for, even by an eternity of happiness—and who 
could guarantee anything of a God who left no manifestations 
of Himself excepting as a king and warlord who possessed all 
power and would build mansions in the skies, after His own 
plans, and expect His followers to be always satisfied with what 
they found there waiting for them. Could slaves or serfs 
expect anything different, or were they at all prepared for 
anything different, when they reached this land of bliss? How 
can one partake of bliss who has never known it? Does not 
the very doctrine of humility prepare one for eternal humility— 
where one would willingly acquiesce to the will of another? 
What a heaven that would be where earth conditions like those 
now existing and which have heretofore existed became the 
fixed eternal conditions of the hereafter. Christ had no knowl¬ 
edge or conception of the individual problems of today and 
those which will become more intense, if the wishes of the 
present overlords continue. It seems as though the best satis¬ 
fied exponents of Christianity were the overlords themselves, 
outside of the ignorant masses, who take their religion like an 
everyday breakfast or any other regular habit of life. Thus 
then you have in the church of today these two classes—the 
overlords, who possess the good things of the earth and the 
uneducated who take their religion like soup. In Ireland we 
have plenty of religion but no freedom, oppression has been the 
law of English domination through the centuries and the result 
is war and unhappiness everywhere and for all time. What 


[ 108 ] 


kind of heaven is being prepared for the Irish and can you 
satisfy them when they reach it ? I think not—when they have 
a sense of freedom and opportunity here they will conceive of 
a similar thing in the hereafter and not until they do. The 
same argument applies to any people in slavery or subservience 
to a foreign power. I think the Russians are the only people 
who are at all likely in the near future to say to themselves, 
we will throw off the burden of the Czars and the Church and 
live our own lives in our own way. We have followed the 
conception of the commune for five hundred years and it looks 
as though the co-operation that comes through the joint labors 
of the little groups scattered throughout our great country, 
contained the germ of a larger and more elaborate plan, to be 
worked out whereby each of us can lead the largest and best 
life, developing all the latent possibilities that lie within us, 
and so prepare us, if not for some eternal home, at least for 
succeeding generations of those even more qualified to live in 
the greatest development, because we have prepared a way for 
them to do so. No, Mr. Bunyan, the Gospel you preach is not 
for the twentieth century and its problems. We must have 
a broader horizon—the missionaries you send out to all the 
world have become simply the gunboats of the politicians, and 
the cause of Christ as preached by them in the implantment of 
a civilization that broadens the markets of the manufacturing 
world by creating wants amongst those who have hitherto lead 
simple lives and do not know the demands of our complex asso¬ 
ciations. The Church, from the mere fact that it is supported by 
dead men’s legacies has become the agent of a system creating 
wealth by the misfortune of others and which makes a mockery 
of the simple fundamentals of Christ and his disciples. If you 
should preach for one day the admonition “to sell what thou 
hast and give to the poor” your Church would revolt against 
you and cast you out as an unsafe leader or shepherd of the 
flock. I know what the dangers of the advocacy of industrial 
justice to all established and intrenched institutions, of which 
the Church is one, are, and I predict that what is known as 
the Christian religion will either become more of an empty 
sepulcher than it now is, under our present capitalistic system 
or yield itself to dissolution under a new future for mankind, 
in which Christ’s old thoughts for humanity may blossom into 
realities and the Church or what will take its place become the 


[ 109 ] 


rallying ground of the common brotherhood of man. Now we 
educate our boys and girls to the dollar standard of success in 
life, with religion to make it respectable, let us rather educate 
them to develop spontaneously their unborn talents, that the 
generations may be the flowering blossoms of genius, of which 
they have now only the faintest glimpse through the lives of 
the few who must express themselves for the abundance of joy 
that is overflowing within them. 

Mary O’Reilly: —Yes, I see it every day in my school— 
I must teach these children what I find in the books that are 
given me, but I know that each book is censored and carefully 
constructed so that these plastic minds may be given a certain 
bent that will not permit them in after years to differ in their 
ideas and beliefs from those preceding. These books are all 
like bibles that teach the only true religion—yours—others are 
false and dangerous and when you teach the formative mind 
of the child such absolute things, he absorbs an all sufficiency 
of his environment which it is difficult to displace. This is the 
great argument against democracy represented by Church and 
State as at present constituted and the cause of all this,— 
“canned minds”—typical of democratic multitudes, the few 
individuals who stand aloof from such democracy are alien 
to its sympathy and live their lives within themselves—hope¬ 
lessly. Nothing will stir the world again excepting a revival of 
individualism, wherein each member will be permitted and 
encouraged to develop his own nature. Out of such soil will 
come a real relationship of men, in which the possession of 
mere physical property will not be the criterion by which their 
worth will be judged. I am amazed that a dying Church does 
not grasp this one way out for its salvation —then indeed will 
Christ come in the glory of a new revelation, in order that 
a revaluation may be given to the world and its possibilities 
for the growing life of man. Mr. Bunyan, you are a human 
being, you say you believe in the brotherhood of men and a 
divine love, why not break away from these ossified conceptions 
that surround you and make for a newer condition? 

John Bunyan: —Impossible, as long as I believe Christ 
may appear again, perhaps tomorrow, what need of this—He 
will change everything necessary on the day of resurrection. 
I am satisfied to offer the opportunity to those who wish eternal 
life—those who prefer the other state can freely choose it—why 


[HO] 


should I upset or try to upset God’s word which seems so plain 
to me? We use wealth simply as an agent to carry on our 
work and would be guilty before God if we tried to decry 
or dissipate it. I fear it is useless for me to say more to you 
than I have—you and those like you are terribly mistaken in 
your views of life but you must choose between them and the 
free gospel—that is yours to accept if you have the faith. I 
must leave you now as it is getting late and only hope that 
any words that God has put into my heart to say may be like 
seed fallen on soil that will bring them to the ripened harvest. 
Good night and God bless you all. 

Mary: —Jack, will you show Mr. Bunyan the way down 
—the roof steps are a little steep and it may be dark in the 
hallway. I thank you, Mr. Bunyan, for staying with us as 
long as you have—we value the company of anyone who differs 
with us and has the courage of his convictions. We all hope 
you will think yourself out into the larger life which seems to 
appeal to us and in which wealth in money terms does not play 
an important part. (Jack and Bunyan go down the steps from 
the roof.) 

Sirfesser: —Really, I have been knocked into silence by 
His Eminence—I have shown the remarkable control I have 
over my ponderous will by maintaining silence in his presence, 
such constraint under a great provocation is undeniably a won¬ 
derful test of my powers of self denial—I cannot however hold 
myself in longer and must give vent to my feelings on your 
beloved friend by proving the assininity of all his vaporings— 

Maude :—Restrain yourself, Sirfesser—I suggest that you 
let some of your mind run to your feet as was proposed earlier 
in the evening. Here is a fine place on this roof to trip the 
light fantastic and a few chords from Mary’s accordeon will 
set your blood in motion in a more enjoyable channel than 
berating a well intentioned minister of the gospel for express¬ 
ing his honest, but emotional ideas. (Gets up and walks to the 
Sirfesser while Mary starts the dance music for them—Jack 
Jones reappears and takes Mary O’Reilly into the dance while 
the others break into desultory conversation on different sub¬ 
jects. The Sirfesser labors hard to acquire a graceful step 
under Maude’s careful persuasion but finds it pretty hot work 
and they soon succumb, sitting down to sandwich and bottle.) 

Jim Larkin: —Sometimes I get discouraged when I see 


[ 111 ] 


the great possibilities in such men as Bunyan going to waste. 
As an apostle of human liberty he would be an unquestioned 
force. We need strong, trenchant voices like his for the cause 
of freedom—men unafraid to speak the truth as it comes to 
them. When I think of Debs and Nearing and the sacrifices 
they have made for the cause of humanity I am ashamed for 
myself and so many others who are sometimes lukewarm in the 
greatest cause that can stir the heart of the world—the casting 
off of the fetters that manacle man’s free development—why 
should not every one wish that very thing? At the melodrama 
it is always the triumph of virtue over vice, of the hero over 
the villain; of the good, the true and the beautiful over lies, 
the ugly and deceitful—all the people applaud this and are 
exasperated over the other—why is this not so in real life? 
Here the child is bound hand and foot from the start—no truth 
or falsehood presented excepting those that are allowed, no 
political, economic, or traditional scheme unless approved by 
the powers that be, no liberty of language or press unless 
harmless to self constituted authority—all is touched by the 
dreary conventionalism prescribed by the few. Bunyan is 
preaching this conventionalism,—he does not use his individu¬ 
ality to question it—does not wish to because he knows he will 
undermine the structure which he has helped to build. Some¬ 
times when I get to thinking of these things all become dis¬ 
tasteful to me,—I love the compelling force that pushes me 
on to realize my ideals—all seems so futile, so impossible, I 
cry out to myself—what is the use, those with my sentiments 
are being submerged by the impotency of the masses to think 
for themselves—bah—such democracy sickens me, I would 
throw it away and begin civilization all over again and try to 
make amends for its great injustices by teaching everyone the 
value of self salvation and independence of thought. 

Mary McF :—Well, well Jim, don’t get discouraged. 
We all know the great and seemingly losing fight you are 
making; but be assured the right will prevail. The masses, 
when aroused will turn and face the light some day just as 
readily as now they face the darkness. Before we break up I 
would like to have you all go with me tomorrow night to a 
meeting of the Peoples Council, which is striving to uphold 
the Constitution of our country and preserve the rights of free 
speech even in these troublous war times. I think you will 


[ 112 ] 


feel under the inspiration of this meeting, that there are those 
still among us who are strong for those ideals that Jim longs 
so much for and the lack of which have brought this melan¬ 
choly note into his voice tonight. This meeting will be held 
at the old Langdon Apartments, corner Bunker and Desplaines 
streets, and our friend St. John Tucker will be its chairman. 
Let us all go and show that we are doers of the word and not 
hearers only. 

(They all go down the steps from the roof and the cur¬ 
tain falls as the last one of the party descends.) 

Curtain 

Scene III 

(In Mrs. Flanagan s apartment at the Langdon, southeast 
corner Bunker and Desplaines streets, evening of the next day. 
The parlor is placed with folding chairs for a meeting; a table 
with several chairs about it at one end of the room. Several 
American flags are displayed. At about 8 o'clock the audience 
files slozvly in—all sorts and conditions of people until the room 
is nearly filled with those sitting and standing. About the 
table are seated Rev. St. John Tucker, Laura Hughes, Lillian 
Hiller Udell and Harriet Thomas who have just arrived and 
been announced as speakers for the evening. In the audience are 
seen two plain clothes men as well as a member of the secret 
service — government. There is a feeling of suspense in the air as 
the time of commencement arrives. The faces of several of 
those who parted on the roof of the Arlington Hotel the night 
before—Jack Jones, Jim Larkin, the Sirfesser, Mary McFad- 
den are noted here and there in the audience.) 

St. John Tucker:— I will open the meeting by reading 
that part of the constitution of the United States which guar¬ 
antees the right of peaceable assemblage of people and the free 
expression of their opinions as to the government and the acts 
of its delegated representatives. In this country the people are 
supreme and the officials are those who perform the will of 
the people. Let it be known that we are not here to oppose 
the war, or instigate opposition to the draft, merely to carry 
on in the spirit of the constitution. We are within our rights 
to petition congress to end the war by overtures both to the 
allies and to the enemy and also within our rights to give aid 


[ 113 ] 


and sympathy to all of those young men who are opposed by 
their religious or conscientious scruples from entering a combat 
of force with their fellow men. There are many such who 
will need to feel the sustaining influence of others organized 
to protect their rights, there are many ways in which they can 
serve their country in departments of the government in which 
none of the real fighting is experienced. 

A Voice: —They are slackers—give them the rope. 

Tucker: —Be calm, my friend, until I get through and 
then you can have a chance to talk. 

Same Voice: —Well, talk like an American, we want to 
hear the real stuff, we are with the government, constitution 
or no constitution. 

Several Voices :—Yes, that’s it, put the copperheads out. 
Make them salute the flag. What’s this meeting for anyway? 

Mr. Tucker: —We must have quiet here—if you want to 
talk go outside, but keep still until I am through. As I was 
saying I will read you the article of the constitution under 
which our government exists. It gives us certain inalienable 
rights. (Reads.) “Congress shall make no law abridging the 
freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people 
peaceably to assemble and to petition the government for a 
redress of grievances.” So we are here to enforce and uphold 
the constitution. If it was not written for times just like 
those we are going through today it certainly was not written 
with any serious intention, but inasmuch as we respect its other 
provisions and are governed by them, it is fair to assume that 
the obligation of the government to the people is just as bind¬ 
ing in these concerns as in any other. The only way the 
provisions can be violated by those in authority is by the use 
of force not authorized and which is winked at by those of 
the people who favor the war and with it the suppression of 
any expression which is hostile to the war and the measures 
promulgated to carry it on. We all know that the nation 
was coerced into it by propaganda, evidently furnished by the 
English and that even then, unless conscription had been de¬ 
creed it would have been impossible to obtain an army to send 
across the sea. The whole idea is absolutely un-American and 
contrary to the best thought of those responsible for the con¬ 
stitution and our form of government, who advised against 
entangling foreign alliances in no uncertain terms. Even our 


[ 114 ] 


secretary of state under the present administration resigned 
his high office rather than be a party to this partnership. We 
are not enemies of the country because we say no war should 
be entered into without giving the people a chance to say 
whether they want it or not. No one denies that the people 
would unite to repel an invader—a casus belli about which 
there can be little dispute but to deliberately “take up arms 
against a sea of trouble” as Shakespeare once remarked requires 
serious consideration and a verdict by those most greatly con¬ 
cerned. However that is a thing of the past—we are now in 
the war, whether we wish to be or not and the thing that most 
vitally interests the members of the People’s Council is to 
preserve the rights that we possess under the constitution as 
American citizens. The People’s Council which is organizing 
in different neighborhoods everywhere intends to become a 
powerful factor to protect the innocent and helpless as far as 
lies within its power. We wish to establish a branch council 
in this locality and believe there are a sufficient number of real 
Americans to step forward and become a part of it. Of course 
the socialists are already very strongly interested, as are the 
members of the Society of Friends who have never found it 
necessary to go to war to settle their differences and I am well 
aware that many members of the American Peace Society have 
decided that now is the time to demonstrate practically what 
they have stood for in theory for many years. We all thought 
that the Spanish-American war of twenty years ago was to 
be the last war in which our country would participate and up 
to a few months ago no one here would have predicted that 
we would now be involved in the present one—it all shows 
what a well organized and well developed propaganda can do. 
Mothers who then would have said they did not raise their 
boys to become soldiers now declare that they will give all they 
possess to be a part of a glorious war. What does this mean? 
Simply that great forces have organized this propaganda and 
sent it on its way—through the churches, theatres and places 
of business with the endorsement of men and women highly 
influential, until the masses have acquiesced, as they always 
will when well led, and now we have only a minority, and a 
small one at that, who will raise their voices even to defend 
that particular part of the constitution which I have just read. 
So here we are, believing sincerely that we have a position 


[ 115 ] 


which we ought to maintain and which we must maintain to 
save our country from becoming more Prussianized than the 
very evil we are called upon to resist. As a socialist of course 
I can predict that the money power will gain tremendously in 
this country as a result of this war—all of the hidden wealth 
amongst countless millions will be brought together in the 
effort to finance the government, and as in our other wars, 
the temptation to profiteer amongst influential contractors and 
politicians will be too strong to be resisted, and countless new 
millionaires will be created, who, after the ending of the war, 
in order to defend their greed, will be obliged to organize 
themselves in defense against the great bulk of the people who 
have put up this money in the sincere object of aiding their 
government. The socialists believe that the power of business 
men’s associations will be greatly increased because of this need 
of standing together in their ill-gotten gains and by their power 
in the different communities in which they exist, prevent any 
reaction on the part of the government in seeking to force 
them to disgorge that part of their enormous profits which was 
unjustifiable but which the authorities, due to the emergency 
were unable to control at the time. Not only will this situa¬ 
tion exist—but labor too—after feeding luxuriously on war 
wages, will decide that it can never work for any less, and 
there will begin anew, but with greater stress than ever before, 
the conflict between capital and labor. I say all these things to 
suggest that saving the world for democracy is not the only 
great thing to be attained that is in the minds of statesmen and 
politicians. We must be on the alert and keep our minds in 
action, for after all, you who I see before me are the ones who 
must suffer and toil, that the few fortunate ones may enjoy 
the luxuries of life which come as the gift of the toilers. Has 
not this state of affairs followed every great war the world 
has experienced? We need not expect less from this and it 
will be to the sane and unselfish people who come out of it 
with their faith still strong in humanity and brotherhood that 
the world will have to look for its redemption. Now we wish 
to unite all such people and be prepared when the end comes 
to go on with the work of humanization, of trying to make 
our own kind believe that they are not different from those 
of other nations, that they have the same likes and dislikes and 
any differences of color, race or religion, are due to their own 


[ 116 ] 


special environment which has caused a separation of its kind 
from us. The world must make some sort of a start at once 
to eradicate its differences and prejudices, old feuds must be 
forgotten in the larger citizenship of a common humanity. I 
have never known any one of any race, color or creed who 
did not respond to the sentiments of love and happiness—these 
are the natural conditions of life for which all hope and which 
commend their aspirations. War is the one great separator 
of man from man, the withholder of love and happiness from 
man, the breeder of hates and jealousies, bringing the destruc¬ 
tive hope of glory to a certain community to the exclusion of 
another less fortunate in its ability to withstand force. This 
is the old cave man’s feeble reasoning he must protect himself 
and his cave by a superior force which not only did this but 
also destroyed his enemy and his enemy’s cave. This was 
indeed glory about which he could brag, as we are inclined 
to brag about our superiority in the use of force to maintain 
ourselves and our territories. The whole thing starts in our 
belief of superiority over some one else, and this super excel¬ 
lence we think lies in what we call, the character of the civi¬ 
lization we possess and the other does not. We become 
Christianized and are soon taught that it is the only true 
religion and all others are false, there is a penalty of eternal 
agony attached to being heathen. Under the impulse of a 
feeling we know not what, we stretch our arms to help, but 
only on condition that their minds be changed to conform to 
ours—otherwise they are still heathen and hopeless. These 
seem to be almost all of them in the tropics, and we insist 
that their nakedness be clothed in cotton and calicoes, all of 
which brings sickness and inconvenience to them, but business 
and prosperity to us. In this desire to convert the heathen 
there is one of the underlying and great causes of war and is 
undoubtedly the greatest cause of the present war. Not the 
making of the world safe for democracy—no, far from it—but 
making it safe for the commercial supremacy of one side or 
the other in furnishing the wants of Christian civilization to 
the countless millions of these heathen who are perishing for 
the want of Christ and calico the tropical world over—and 
the question now before us is—shall this Christ and these 
calicoes be of English extraction or German?—I will not say 
more but leave the case to you that we must stand by our 


[ 117 ] 


rights as we see them and when this present disturbance is 
all over go on with the fight again for the cause of human 
brotherhood, unfettered by the narrowing visions that nation¬ 
ality, creed or environment will give to us, and all of us if 
we still continue to permit them to do so. I will ask Miss 
Laura Hughes to speak to you now and present our cause 
from the woman’s standpoint, for after all it is the woman 
who will be called upon to bear the great burdens of sorrow 
and suffering which come from the horrors of war. The 
sympathy of a woman’s heart goes out I am sure to all the 
young men, in all of the conscripted armies who are fighting 
to kill other young men, whom they have never seen and 
have no cause to be arrayed against in a bitterness of heart 
that drives them to the most desperate actions under the name 
of a glorious service for the sake of their country. My God, 
why do you not, in the omnipotence of your all seeing wisdom, 
open the eyes of those you have created in your image, to 
reflect the work of the creator and keep it strong and beau¬ 
tiful that the name of the Father may be glorified in the sight 
of all mankind? Let me now introduce to you Miss Laura 
Hughes who will bring you a message from another land. 

Laura Hughes: —This war finds me in a foreign coun¬ 
try but it is a war in which my own country, as well as 
yours, is involved and this time we seem to be allies and 
fighting for the same cause. Of course it is a war that has 
long been looked forward to by the European nations, while 
you of America are undoubtedly taken very much by surprise 
that there were conditions there which forced the conclusion. 
You know the Germans and English have been mistrustful of 
each other’s supremacy now for the greater part of the past 
generation, and it only needed the kindling spark which has 
come to start the proceedings now involving nearly all the 
nations of the world on one side or the other. What has 
woman got to say about it, and what part has she taken these 
latter years leading up to the point where peace ceased to 
exist and war became the active factor in life?. I fear that 
the great past, in which woman has played an inactive part in 
the affairs of state, is responsible for the evident truth that 
her consent has not been sought or considered in the important 
step the world has taken. Of course there are small bodies 
of intelligent women in all countries who have seemed to 


[ 118 ] 


believe and advocate that the differences of nations could or 
should be settled by peaceful methods, but the voices of these 
women have not reached influentially because there was no 
potent political power behind them. Give a large body of 
people like the women, the vote, or the power to express a 
definite opinion like the policy of the government and at once 
there is a hearing given and consideration for the opinions. 
I dare say that then women in every country at present in¬ 
volved, if the question of war or peace had been made political 
propaganda for a period of ten years or so before our present, 
leading up to the events of 1914, would have prevented the 
very atmosphere which burst into flames at that particular time 
and which men found then they could not control. Women’s 
hearts are peculiarly touched by the thought of physical suf¬ 
fering, especially where it is likely to come to them in their 
immediate families and will go at great lengths to prevent 
its occurance. Of course we realize that once a woman is 
aroused by propaganda to believe that her country is endan¬ 
gered, she will go to any sacrifice to maintain just what a 
man will fight to maintain, but this is only in an emergency- 
over a long period of years she will more willingly qualify 
herself for peace and constructively grow in that direction. 
She has not the same interest in war that a man has—does 
not come as near to its glories and does not participate in its 
results unless it should happen to enter her own family in 
shape of death or injury. So we see that woman’s part in 
war is largely in the hospital, binding up the wounds, solacing 
the sick and dying and giving comforting words to those, who 
far from home are about to pass into the great beyond. This 
is a noble part to play and now that we are a part of a great 
war, the American woman, as well as the English and Canadian 
will go hand in hand in these great missions of mercy. What 
we of the People’s Council are trying to do is to soften the 
blow as much as we may, both to our young men and boys 
who will face scenes they have never been fitted for, and 
protect those who have it inborn that they can never take an 
active part in such methods of settling their differences. . I 
have no apologies to make for England, it has been her mis¬ 
taken policy for years to believe that the blessings of civilization 
could be best administered through her efforts, and her army 
and navy have been her strong arms to enforce this belief. 


[ 119 ] 


Railroads and improved devices, by which life has been made 
easier to live have resulted everywhere the flag has been raised, 
and as a pioneer of civilization she has been a power and an 
influence in the development of the world. Just now, however, 
the increasing reputation of certain other countries has forced 
a new element into the great world questions and has brought 
about issues that heretofore have never been seriously con¬ 
sidered. An important manufacturing country like Germany 
or the United States, after it has become intensely organized 
can produce much more than its own people can consume, and 
in order that they shall be regularly and constantly employed, 
foreign markets in undeveloped countries must be sought out 
and wants created in them for the goods to be disposed of. 
This is a situation at once sensitive to other countries, pro¬ 
ducing the same goods and causes a competition for the newly 
found trade. New countries too have natural products like 
minerals, wheat, cotton or oil which are needed in overcrowded 
lands or in countries where there is nothing produced of a 
similar kind. Now comes the rush of colonization and the 
introduction of customs and habits, that not only create de¬ 
mands, but form associations between new and old countries 
which lead to business relationships of vast importance and 
valuable results to the manufacturing countries. We see this 
enacted in all of our so-called leading countries and the creation 
of a gigantic commerce, on sea and by rail, necessarily financed 
by these same nations which have the reserve capital to lend 
to make them possible, and as necessarily paid tribute to by the 
peoples of the newer and undeveloped countries who are the 
beneficiaries. This all leads to the system of the protecting 
agreements, mandates, favored clause treaties which exist today 
and whereby nearly every weak nation is under the wing of 
a strong one. As England is the strongest and most aggressive 
she has the greatest number of ducklings under her wing to 
care for. Japan is feeling the same pressure now in Asia 
and must necessarily find a dwelling place for her excess 
population in adjacent or further domains, where Japanese can 
find both a place of residence and protection of the imperial 
flag. What the results are of this policy of acquiring influence 
in foreign spheres, we all know, and who can forsee the ending 
of a policy of this kind which tries to enforce its will on peoples 
of a different language and disposition. I think when we have 


[ 120 ] 


carefully considered this situation we will realize the real rea¬ 
sons for this present war and how deep seated it is, and, too, 
the fact that it will be prolonged and disastrous before it is 
decided. The problem of America is how to go along with 
it under the stress of a diversified population whose different 
interests call them in sympathy, at least, with the countries 
of their descent and the heritages of long years of the environ¬ 
ment of their childhood. I don’t know how America will stand 
the test of this war—it has been a great melting pot in the 
years of peace—will it hold together its cemented fragments 
in the greatest test of all? Other nations are largely of their 
own people—native stock, tracing back through the genera¬ 
tions—but in America not so—the multitudes who have poured 
through its gates now for fifty years, in a constantly enlarging 
stream—will it be America’s problem to them or the problem 
of each individual country whose blood they have coursing in 
their veins? It is a most interesting experiment in democracy 
and one which only a great war can make possible. If America 
comes through it all, intact and determined, it will prove some 
things that only a great emergency can prove. Will it prove, 
for instance, that a great peasant population such as America 
has inherited from Europe can withstand the temptations to 
illicit gain which come from an opportunity like this? I 
should like to believe it will, but I am afraid. I am afraid 
of the loss of character that goes with these great upheavals, 
that men and women will become less tolerant of others who 
disagree with them; that it will seem a little easier to impose 
governmental restrictions on those who are the minority which 
dares to express itself. Of those who fear the constant aggran¬ 
disement of wealth that such power gives. Once this country 
was in the power of men, who after the war of the American 
revolution—slave holders, lawyers, financiers and profiteers,— 
sought to give it a constitution in no sense representing de¬ 
mocracy and freedom for which the war had been fought so 
many trying years to bring about. The result was, that the 
majority of the colonies which sought to form themselves 
into United States would not acquiesce until Thomas Jefferson, 
who had been sent abroad was returned to the country and 
there insisted that the broad planks of personal liberty which 
are now the bulwark of your present constitution be incor¬ 
porated—when they were, there was no trouble in forming 


[ 121 ] 


a union of the original colonies and from that time until now 
the constitution has grown to fit the various conditions which 
have arisen. I think Lincoln, if he had lived, would have 
not been satisfied with his work for the black race but would 
have taken a decided stand for the broader democracy which 
visions of his youth had brought to him in the great undevel¬ 
oped west, that was to become the growing seat of power and 
dominion of the states. It seems to me, as I look at things in 
the great central west, that the broad expanse of your prairies 
will create a new spirit in your country of widened horizons 
and generous disposition for the toiling millions who work 
their lives away that the few may receive the greater benefit. 
All these things pass before me now like a dream. While we 
are in the midst of a great thing called war, it is something 
that has been caused by conditions of which Americans know 
little. Here you have thousands of miles of growing wheat 
and corn—plenty everywhere and for everyone, and yet the 
telling figures of your census, that every ten years the per¬ 
centage of ownership is slipping into the hands of fewer and 
fewer people, until now, it is said that two per cent of your peo¬ 
ple own seventy-one per cent of your wealth, and the margin 
growing tighter each decade. Where will it all lead us to, 
and how soon? Will the end of the war bring the great 
masses to a realizing sense of their growing helplessness? Will 
it do so in other countries and is there a menace to civilization 
as presently conceived in such a situation? What about grow¬ 
ing prices, of higher rents, of inferior housing conditions, of 
employment of women and girls in men’s occupations, and in 
munition factories? Will the women wish to keep the men’s 
places after the war? Will the men work at all when they 
finish fighting? Will army life destroy their better selves? 

I dare not think these things out, they stare at me like the 
rattling bones in the faces of the dead whose eyes are gone 
and their minds. O women, salvation for the human race is 
in your arms, it lies in every cradle that you rock and give 
your softening influence to—the love that shines in a mother’s 
eyes can reach out from its own child to stir the world to a 
diviner conception of the worth of life. Since we are placed 
here in relationship with those of our kind, let us lead the 
primrose path, where the sun shines and kisses us into the 
ways of everlasting peace. I speak from the heart of a woman, 


[ 122 } 



for there it seems to me lies the salvation of the human race. 
In the quiet and generous impulses of her nature, will come 
forth the spring blossoms of a newer season that will enrich 
and enlighten the summer world with a joy never before ex¬ 
perienced. To the thorny tree of war can be grafted the pleas¬ 
anter fruit of peace, which woman’s hand will learn the wis¬ 
dom of bestowing, when men have tired of commanding their 
neighbors to follow their conventions or fight to maintain others. 

(Sits down amid a storm of applause and hisses. Just 
then, as the chairman has announced the next speaker, cries 
and cheers are heard in the street and a tramping of feet on 
the stairway, as though a crowd was approaching. The noise 
comes nearer and soon rapid knockings and calls are heard at 
the door. The room is already nearly filled but the demand 
seems imperative and the door is opened to let in a noisy, defiant 
gang of young men — Greeks, Italians, Polish Jews, and Slo¬ 
vaks, marching in single file carrying an American flag at the 
head and let by a youth in uniform. They have no respect for 
the meeting and march in with a brutal determination to stop 
it and disperse the speakers to prevent any further talk.) 

Mr. Tucker: —Will you be more quiet please—we 
haven’t much more room here and wish to proceed wtih our 
meeting. 

The Leader: —You are a gang of traitors and we will 
not allow you to do your dirty work. This meeting has got 
to give three cheers for the flag or take the consequences. 

Mr. Tucker: —We are here for the very purpose of 
preserving our rights under the flag and constitution. Perhaps 
you don’t know that. 

Leader: —To hell with the Constitution—war is war, 
that’s all we know. Our crowd is going to enlist and we 
don’t want any damned slackers or copperheads around here 
telling us what to do. We know what we want and we are 
going to get it. You can’t hold meetings like this around in this 
neighborhood—real Americans won’t stand for it—hey boys? 

Chorus :—No, no, put them out—drop them in the lake. 
(Much confusion and trepidation on the part of some of those 
in the audience who fear a fight or something worse.) 

(Mrs. Udell stands up behind the speaker s table as if 
to start to speak. The crowd roars her down and her words 
are inaudible. In the confusion Jack Jones and Jim Larkin 


[ 123 ] 


rise from their seats and are seen forcing their way to the 
front. The marchers try to stop them and are given a taste 
of their own medicine which starts a grand scramble by the 
hoodlums to get after Jones and Larkin. Finally, after several 
heads are bruised the plain clothes men , who turn out to be 
McDonagh and Egan, get up and show their stars and com¬ 
mand quiet in the name of the law. Order is partially restored 
and Mrs. Udell resumes.) 

Mrs. Udell: —Mrs. Thomas and I came here tonight 
as members of the Peoples Council to answer questions that 
might be asked by members of the audience in regard to the 
objects and aims of the Peoples Council. We are not intimi¬ 
dated by the actions of some of the outsiders tonight and only 
regret that their course seems to need an expression of argu¬ 
ment by force, which is no argument at all, to prove its right¬ 
eousness. I am afraid that their patriotism lies further back 
than the desire to save the world for democracy and if we 
realize the hopes of a lot of small nations through this war 
we will be able to reach the real basis for their enthusiasm 
in following the American flag. America is synonymous with 
the thought of freedom with them and if Poland and some 
of the Balkan states can become free by America’s sacrifice 
they are perfectly willing that it should come in that way. 
But we of the stock of native Americans for many generations 
back are slow to respond to this kind of an argument and 
must be shown that the gain will be commensurate with the 
cost. I, for one, shall be perfectly willing to see a free world 
if I can see an unselfish one at the same time. 

A Voice:— You are a friend of the Kaiser—the man who 
massacres the Belgian babies and bombards the Churches. Soon 
he will be over here doing the same thing in Chicago if we 
don’t stop him. Shame on you and all the Socialists—they 
don’t deserve to live in a free land,—let them go back to 
Deutschland where they all belong. Hurrah for Wilson and 
the U. S. government. (Loud cheers and shouts.) 

Mrs. Udell:— Well let’s start again. Suppose you ask 
me a question and I will try to answer it—maybe we can 
understand one another better if we do it that way. 

The Leader:— Yes, you tell us about the loads of coffins 
that are being shipped to Europe from this country to bring 
the bodies of our boys back in; what kind of talk is that to 


[ 124 ] 


get our fellows to enlist by—you had rather the Germans 
would win and pull our whiskers afterward. Not by a damn 
sight—such talk don’t go with us, what is this People’s Council 
anyway that is stirring up this mess and trying to break up 
the army? The newspapers say you ought to be tarred and 
feathered and you will be if you don’t quit. 

Mrs. Udell:— Well, worse things have happened to 
those who have tried to be honest with themselves. The 
People’s Councils represent those Americans who wish to save 
America from herself—from the hysteria of war represented by 
the propaganda you read in your newspapers. 

Voice: —O talk United States—we don’t understand this 
college business you are putting over. What we want is for 
you to tell us what a great and glorious country the United 
States is and how it is going to show the Kaiser where he gets 
off at. That’s what we want. 

Mrs. Udell:— I am sorry I did not make myself clear. 
You probably all know what the constitution of the United 
States is and what it says about the right of people to get 
together peaceably and talk things over and be able to say 
what they wish to and have the newspapers tell just exactly 
what they did say. Well, that is what we are trying to do 
and I am sure you will all agree with me that it is right to 
try and have Americans look on this as the right way to carry 
out the intentions of those who organized the government. 
The Peoples Council does not stand for anything else and if 
you as Americans come here and try to break up our meeting, 
it is you who are Prussianizing the people and not us. If 
we were trying to do something illegal we would not be per¬ 
mitted to hold these meetings—the governrment knows we 
are within our rights but you believe what you read in the 
profiteer press which is never known to tell the truth unless 
it is in its interest to do so. It has deliberately lied about us 
from the beginning, and thinks by its sneers and misrepresenta¬ 
tions it can drive us to cover and divorce all liberal minded 
people from us, but it will fail in this, as it always has, and 
we will maintain our self respect and keep the friends we are 
making everywhere. The intelligence of the world is with us, 
as it is in every cause that is righteous in itself, and needs only 
an intelligent mind to discover it. You cannot browbeat the 
best minds of America, or anywhere else, by the arguments of 


[ 125 ] 


brutality. The press knows its power because its victims are 
helpless to get a hearing, but such despots will be found out 
and meet the fate that all hypocrites do when the people are 
organized to do their own thinking and acting. We are able 
to wait, for justice is sometimes tardy but always sure. I 
think I need not speak longer tonight but will let Mrs. Thomas 
answer your further questions. 

(The crowd has quieted down somewhat when the out¬ 
siders see that the speakers cannot be intimidated and that 
McDonagh and Egan do not stop the meeting but are listening 
to everything that is said—the actions of Larkin and Jones 
too have taken some of the starch out of their bravado.) 

Mrs. Thomas: —I am greatly pleased that we are getting 
along so peacefully together. We pacifists like to fight with 
our minds, but not with our fists, and I am sure that in the 
end the well settled argument with a good feeling all around 
has the best results. I know all you fellows who came here 
with such a noise mean alright, but it’s just your way of doing 
things and if you find out there is a better way you will try 
it out. We expect now that all of you will join the Council 
tonight and be our good friends from this time on. 

A Voice:— The hell we will—we don’t want any of 
your stuff and you needn’t come over in this neighborhood 
again or you will get yours,—take this as a warning—one hun¬ 
dred per cent Americans for us and nothing less—we’re going to 
lick the Kaiser and don’t you forget it. When we are in 
Berlin you will know that we mean business—the American 
boys take no back-talk from anyone with or without silk gloves 
on their hands, we think you are a bunch of parlor pinks that 
need a good coat of feathers and that’s what you’ll get if you 
try this again. So we’re going to quit you this time with a 
warning. We don’t want to hear anything more about your 
Peoples Council—it don’t represent anybody—the people are 
all for war and those who are against it are spys for the 
Germans and we will get them where they won’t like it. 
Come on boys, let’s quit this nest of copperheads and get 
some fresh air before we lose our backbone. (They all march 
out with a heavy tramp waving the flag vigorously.) 

Mrs. Thomas: —Well, did you ever see anything like 
that—I thought we had them all converted and coming our 
way but I see I am mistaken. However, that is only an extra 


[ 126 ] 


crowd that we hadn’t counted on—we still have our regular 
meeting and I feel sure there are some here who will be glad 
to identify themselves with us. Up in Evanston last week 
we had the same experience with a crowd of hoodlums more 
or less under the influence of something stronger than water, 
who tried to break up our meeting and threatened us with 
Lake Michigan, but better counsels prevailed and we organ¬ 
ized an enthusiastic council with the aid of our socialist friends 
in the neighborhood. When these ardent fighters see that 
organization goes right on regardless of threats they quit their 
bullying tactics and either remain quiet or leave the meeting 
just as these boys have done. I feel proud of the Peoples 
Council and the stand it has taken—the memory of its acts 
will remain long after the war has ended and be a source of 
pride to those who participated in it. If the war is prolonged, 
its activities will probably be forbidden by the government 
which will see its horizon of tolerance grow smaller with each 
passing week and finally forbid everything which does not have 
as its object the one great thing only of winning the war. 
We are getting into a greater contract than we have ever 
thought of, and if America comes out of it with any 1 honor 
or sense of tolerance left, it will be the only thing redeeming 
the military glory it will have achieved, in saving the allies, 
by overwhelming the central powers, through its mighty forces 
of men and money which it has to pour out in vindication of 
its pride. The faith of the American people rested on Wood- 
row Wilson for keeping us out of the war and re-elected him 
because he had done so, and only for this reason was he called 
upon to administer the government in the high office of Presi¬ 
dent for another term. Was the acceptance of its second period 
made by him in the spirit of hypocrisy? Did he not know 
before last November that he would declare war the following 
April ? A great question to be settled by him and by the 
people some day—and will not the determination of this fact 
settle his place in the history of the American people? I 
believe the day will come when the high pedestal upon which 
he stands, will be shattered by the belief of the next generation 
that he was untrue to the great trust imposed upon him, and 
sold the nation for a mess of pottage—the nature of which 
only the years following the war will reveal. (Sits down.) 

[ 127 ] 


Mr. Tucker: —We have but a few minutes left. I am 
sure we have all been inspired by the events of the evening. 
Those who would like to become members of the Peoples 
Council may do so at the table when the meeting is over by 
signing the cards. If any have a word to say we shall be 
glad to hear from them now. Three minute speeches are in 
order. 

Sirfesser Wilkesbarre (rises from his seat where he 
has been a quiet observer of the events of the evening ): Well, 
by the great Queen Elizabeth—I never saw the likes of this 
before—in old England we can stand up in Hyde Park and 
bless the government to our heart’s content. They say it is 
a good thing to let the people give vent to their feelings. If 
they try anything rough, of course, the police are there 
to keep order—but the mob can say what it pleases and 
I believe I am better off in the old country than in the new. 
Such imbecile organizms, such ignoramus egotists who think 
they can stop the tongues of a free people from wagging. No 
no, the vagabonds will die with their tongues in their mouths, 
serving the useful purpose for which the faithful law of evo¬ 
lution gave them shape. I am glad I came over here tonight 
to see the practical application of the great American doctrine 
of liberty. It does me good to know that somewhere else in 
the world besides Old England there is still chance for a 
reform movement. 

Mr. Tucker: —Well, Sirfesser, we have done the best 
we could to keep you informed of the development of the spirit 
of toleration that was bequeathed to this country by the Puritan 
fathers who came to the rocky shores of Massachusetts to 
establish political and religious liberty, after feeling the hand 
of the oppressor in both Holland and England. It is the same 
everywhere—you must conform—must be conventional, let 
yourself down to the level of a commonplace world or the 
masses will take you in hand and define your limits in no 
uncertain language. What we have seen here tonight is an 
example of the blind leading the blind; all of the martyrdom 
of the world, through the ages, has come of the same spirit— 
Socrates and the cup, Christ and the cross, Bruno and the 
stake, Savonarola and the Borgias—these all suffered extinction 
at the hands of the mindless mob who had no toleration. 
Maybe what we call democracy will perish in the same way, 


[ 128 ] 


perhaps it is only a delusion anyway—our thought of brother¬ 
hood—at any rate it is our hope that a day may come when 
the boundaries and confines which now separate man from 
man, through ancient animosities that seem never to die may 
pass away and we may say to Greek or barbarian—you are 
my brother—at least that is the spirit of the lower north side. 
Curtain 


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' JAN 16 1924 



















